Every room fills with buds sprung open like snake heads. The big, dumb eyes of the chrysanthemums look jaundiced and sick. The lilies have nothing more to give and drop their petals like small gloves. Their sweet smell grows more fetid. My head stays dizzy and numb. Each day the house takes on more death, more dying; more doomed flowers go to pieces. I want to know whose idea this was, filling up death with hundreds of smaller deaths.
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