It’s raining outside. Somehow the rain clears my thoughts. All the cobwebs are wisked out of the murky corners of my mind, where my memories are stored.

You can smell winter in the air. You can’t see it, though, the buildings get in the way. It’s amazing how well the city can block out the seasons. I don’t remember the last time I saw a winter.

I rememeber the last time there was a Christmans. I brought Janice a poinsetta, I had to explain to her what a flower was, she’d never seen one before. We put the poinsetta by the window.

One week later, Janice brought the poor withered thing to me with tears in her eyes. It’s hard to tell a 6 year old about death.

..Janice is gone now
so are all the flowers
..I haven’t seen a flower in years.

It’s cold in here. From my window I can see the city, row upon row of lifeless cement. The lights are out, they’ve been out a long time. I hope I finish this before my candle goes out.,
it’s my last candle.

The flickering of that small flame gives me a sense of warmth, life, security. What if the world were centered ‘round the flame of my candle? What would happen if the flame went out? everything would cease to exist: my life, the world, everything. Strange, to think of the world centered on the flame of my candle.

Why am I writing this? Will anyone ever read it? No. There’s no-one left to read it except me.

I guess I know why I’m doing this. I’m crazy. I’ve been sitting in my room too long. Terrified to go outside, terrified even to breathe. I had to have something to do. And there was the rain, the inkwell, the pen, the paper
.and
.of course
..my last candle.

It’s getting darker now. I’m the last one left; but, somehow, I know it’ll be different. Maybe tomorrow. Something’s going to change tonight, I can feel it.

I suppose I’m finished. The inkwell is almost nearly dry, the paper nearly filled. It’s getting colder and darker, but I don’t mind, it’s a comforting feeling.

Oh yes

.I almost forgot

..the flame of my candle

.it’s going out.