EIGHT

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I lay, sprawled across my bed. There are hot droplets of water slipping away from my eyelids, blurring the image around me into a watercolor masterpiece.

I don't know what the droplets are called.

Maybe the streams of water skimming down my cheek represent the following words: confused, restless, hopeless.

It's rather different because no one is here either. Ki hasn't come in, but rather looks through the window every so often to make sure I'm not dead.

So I guess I can also add the words utterly alone.

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