Why Do Women Put On Tights

Watching him die was like watching the gradual shutdown of a cordless tool that you download. Slowly the heart has stopped, with his breath. And I was there, in front of him or his body, now. What does a child off to of her dad? I got up, went from nurse to feel with simple but eloquent gestures. Then I saw a kind of mechanically memorial service, among patients still alive, although not for long. I thought that if all went well, I would die of the disease and my daughter would have looked astonished, perhaps, thinking that life is all a scam. Like the ancient above.
Now life goes on in a different way, changing names, roles, objects start to look bleak. His clothes closet can now be defined as' belonging to the deceased. " Thus forgiveness their daily value and rise to the role of memories. Should be left attached to tissue cells, some of Anthony, small, invisible, symbolic. And death, too. A hat, a scarf in a drawer, socks to mend. The shoes, which resemble perfectly the feet that have worn. Someone has to collect all these garments, and decide whether to keep them, throw them, give them away. I'll use it, but I feel a monatto. Those pants folded on my arm look like lifeless bodies that are moved to places pitifully require. Among deafening silence, muffled cries, cursing the cruel fate. The rush to organize the little stifling at times moving memories of a life blowing away like tongues of fire from a blanket that tries to suffocate. Often just a small spark to revive a painful fire of the soul. From metaphor to the physical sensation of burning is not much difference in those moments.
objects are our masters. I have at home the last bar of soap used by my father. Clutching the latest cologne. You could go crazy thinking about the last things he possesses. I wonder if my father could imagine what would be his last shower at home, his last supper, the last program seen on TV, read the latest newspaper.

Life goes on, but not quite as before. So many decisions to be taken in place of my father. Many of them extremely painful. Approve my work? Here, I think of him as if he were alive, as if he could judge from another dimension. Of course you live in dreams, now sad, now angry, now silent. It gives me the numbers, but I do not play the lottery. I ask questions. She looks at me. Screams. She cries. It speaks of concepts without sense. But I learned that dreams are projections of real life, is not really him. Although it seems easier to believe the second theory. My existence is meaningless, she stiffened, withered, like an old trunk beach. Once a tree is now bare, dry, abandoned, alone. Milan, the boss, work, their ugliness has no more meaning for me. Are infinitesimally small compared to my gaze toward a horizon that I would climb at all costs.