We left in the afternoon

Death is a strange companion. We know it's there, always, waiting, waiting, and one day it's so much more closer. And for some reason, I can't treat it now as I did once. I sometimes scare myself, my insensibility and ability to tone it out are just amazing. Like killing a dog at the vet with a terminal disease. Just don't think of it. Try not to think of why exactly the animal has gone limp; just carry it to the freezer like it's a sack of potatoes. Symptons.

But now it's different. It's the full realization that I should have listened to my mother when she said, 'go see her, be nicer to her'. It's not going to be a sudden something that I can ignore, standing in the middle of people filled with grief and pretending I don't know why they're crying so hard.

I never liked the smell of hopsitals.

The worst thing is my inability to cry. Now, it's just that little whispering monster tat the back of my head. My father's pasiveness.

The silence.