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True stories of life

Death.
What do I know about death?
I am a cat.
But I know something. Or maybe it's another one I do not know.
Where is Edwin?
Who is Edwin, you say? He is the man I lived with.
The man who was there, in the bed. The new one, not the other.
At the old house.
I am talking about this place, here.
He was there, under the covers, silent. Eyes closed. Motionless.
By the way, what does it matter?
It's not the look, the true proof? Ours and everything around us?
The noise of the voice and the awkwardness of action are useless pieces in the mosaic living.

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