Rain, some thunder. Very dark. And the sort of day I imagine will look exactly the same this afternoon as it does this morning. A day when the light doesn't change. Doesn't help that I'm coming down with something, sore throat, chills. Went to bed thinking about generosity again--that old thing--wanting to parse it once more, for myself. For them. Well when you demand it of a group of people, what're you asking? And are you sure?
***
In the basement, an old crematorium. The ovens coated in ash, the floors also. Then we found the bodies in the drawers above the ovens, twenty eight people who fled--what? something--and hid in the suffocating heat, some with babies in their arms. We started the work of clearing them out, we were covered in ash. The little bones got shoeboxed, numbered, and I began seeing how they died. Furious fast visions of blistering skin, screaming. One took a metal rod through the mouth when someone ran it through the drawer knowing he was there and he watched it come at him. It took a long time to die. In my bed I could hear the ones we stirred opening and closing cabinets, playing music. I couldn't wake up. The dream would not be put down.
***
