I feel like im running out of descriptive dialogue with myself. Its okay, theres not really a need for it. Just the radiation outside is buzzing. It's the good kind, the life kind thats startling to the touch and ear. A woman at the checkout counter smiled her teeth at me and asked if I was in the program. I said eight long months and whats so long about it. Time has slowed, rendered memory supreme. Death is one molasses memory dripping upward it feels sublime. I felt guilty walking out the store as if I had blasphemed in front of a stranger and whats worse was that it was for no good reason but to make conversation. The sorta way we make history out the mundane details of weather. "Eight months. Feels like a long time" drawling on the last half with emphasis, pursing in fake anguish. It hasn't been long. Eight months short hasn't been enough time.