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When a whistle sounds like a wailing baby and rain in the car is a crash of white noise, it’s time to wonder if I’m all there and remember that I’m not.
Effortlessly spreading butter from the dish without mulling over which knife to use the joy that there’ll be no doleful waiting time for the stuff to melt sufficiently on the toast
I hardly recognised the place bowls of boiled sweets fresh flowers and open doors a novel fifties corner dreamt up by a colourful volunteer to celebrate ye olde tea shoppe
As soon as I arrive at her chair I kneel down and kiss her forehead and then her hand. As I look up at her I play with the idea that she will awaken from her illness