He glides by shadowy shapes into the darkened air Through glass sliding doors of the old familiar rest home To find a careful seat at the patio set this warm night And alone, while the others sleep, faces his finality. Promised life for a few years yet, he is surprised At how carefree and unconcerned he seems. Tonight the thoughts are fleeting; he lights A cigarette and wheezes in the humid air.
—Sander Blome
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