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Pneumonia

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Lungs fill up with blood and water,
fill up the cave of breath with muddy
water. Movement, life is lost, the
power recedes. I am reminded

that I am not mine, I am a
thing of nature, like trees that can
grow white with snow or bacterial
infection, like crops that can fail,

like seedlings that never grow to
fruition, like rain suspended
in clouds, never to fall. I thank
what controls me for every breath

that it gives me, or every breath
that it does not take away, every
day it presents before my eyes,
which open only by the will of

this mysterious presence of
Life.






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