Illness Progressed

Illness Progressed (written by April Trice)

There’s a hole in my ceiling.

It’s there because I thought there were cameras installed.

To listen.

To watch what I was doing.

I went into the attic

Searching desperately

For a camera that didn’t exist.

I took a screwdriver

And a flashlight.

Making the hole bigger.

Shining the light.

Searching.

Nothing.

Noone was here.

I was alone.

Me.

And my decrepit mind.

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