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18. “Butt-ends of my days and ways”

And to what degree would we finally find ourselves in completion, were the last words Michael spoke before the sickness took him, before he became a mind at a loss, before his body — not independent as he had so previously suspected — too fell susceptible to old age and all of its damning consequences. Before long he became a six foot child, waifish, incontinent, fed at the hand of his wife, sleeping as to not be forced into a world of things he did not understand. It wasn’t before long that he died –eyes open, body bent up, the stem of a mangled flower — in the home where all of his children were born.

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