In the broken yolk of dusk, indistinct birds diminish in number and furtive volume, remembering previous dawns, a greater happiness. The sky is a vast dam of light patched with clouds of straw and mud; he pays no homage, the weight of his own nature so heavy upon him as to prohibit reflection. Death is coming for him, but something worse has already transpired. Rallying to a forsaken, penultimate effort, jerky footsteps carry him back through the door. His shambling prospect collapses on the bed. Each movement, primitive now, furls inside him to disappear as involuntary impulse. The bed, still made but creased, lit lamp, bathroom kit, her overnight satchel, even she, do not stir but declare their attendance to one another, having relieved themselves of his perspective, looming though it once was. If one or two minutes had been exchanged this would have ended differently.
As if genuflecting toward prayer, some derelict ancient ritual, he rises with her near-conscious body and she swallows furious moans until her arms begin to talon and shield. Blood springs from his boots and off his hands as he retrieves the knife again and again from her chest, desperate to bestow life. Out of an unwinding embrace he withdraws across the room, conceals the weapon along this panicky recoil. What she assumed

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