Death CertificateKim Gek Lin Short
We were still in our early days when they show up, pull out that coiled piece of paper torn from a soup can. It is a shade of buglight, so naturally Harlan is induced. I am in the basement, under a metal blade for another improvement. I am so pale. I think to roll myself onto the front stairs for some sun, but Harlan says it is too late. In that cold room I do regain color. Honey, mahogany, cherry slits of veneer and up-close a contrast of whitebirch in the luminous disk they place on my hair. I feel like on Sundays. I even blush when they read about me in that shining scroll. The passion. The intrigue. The cause is not certain, but on my back I see the heavens start to configure. The moon lean as a wand in a lean black hat. Does he think I come back? I come back.
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