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I have no will. I have no curiosity.
Of its own, a finger is passing with
barely a touch along the blade until suddenly, catching on a
spot, it halts. Rust, perhaps. I raise my hand over to the light,
careful not to tighten my hold over the thing. A cold shine can
be seen in intervals, shooting up and down between my fingers
along the metallic handle. I can sense the edge.
I can see my wrist, a vein twisting
through it with a hard pulse. I can see the delicate lines guessing
their way across the skin. How frail is life. Better close your
eyes. Close your eyes, I say. Do it.
I close my eyes and with a light,
effortless relief, my thoughts are lifted from the moment. They
are lifted, turning over the edge, cutting up and away. I have
no will. I have no curiosity. I have no blood. I am no longer
here.
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