A body weakened by disease, she struggles to carry her bones up stairs that now appear steep and daunting. She grips the railing for support, and with every step she takes, a vacuum pulls the air out of the room until it is then released, and then, another step. How long can she go on like this, you ask yourself. How long until she becomes a phantom of this place? You will carry her memory with you; you will wear it like an invisible mask of impossible grief. But until then, you will be a watchman of time and decay. The mirror reveals to you a face that is aging beyond the scope of time; it is slowly contorting into an incomplete portrait of loss and pain, and a brow that appears heavy and swollen, as if it is there where all your troubles have taken residency. They’ve been with you for nearly a decade and have thereby become enmeshed within you; they’ve entangled themselves like a malignancy, embedded far too deep to ever be excised. You turn out the lights, pull down the sheets, and crawl inside. Your weary head lay softly on down and cotton. You close your eyes and think, What if all of this is just a bad dream...