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His symptoms swarmed like flocks of angry birds.

With no place to perch they partied, piercing

with tiny beaks, scratching with angry claws

creating the illusion that the confusion was in his head.

The only absolute certainty at the beginning is the ending.

What happens in between is sliced into units

of time that we play, like a game, one card at a time.

There is an illusion that we can do whatever we

choose but in the hustle of surviving, we lose sight of

the blight called death. It spies on us from afar

seasoning our days with dashes of premonition of

coming face to face with the abundance of all that we

cannot know.

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