by Harriet Hunter
(St. Paul, MN, USA)

Your life is meaningless; you are a slave to currency, and everything you own will burn. This world is temporary and every day you spend in it is one more day you are closer to death. You find sanctity in the materials you own and the image you have created. While, death is waiting to cross your pristinely landscaped yard, walk through your white picket fence, up your freshly vacuumed stairs, and across your satin sheets. Death will stare at your finely combed body, clean and naked laying in wait for dawn. Death will not stop to ask himself if you've lived a full life, or if you are finished with your plans. You've spent every day preparing for tomorrow. Preparing for an event that was of no guarantee to you. An event you had no control over ever having and wont. Yet, every day you put on a proper appearance. Hoping for acceptance, for money, for success, for power. Death strikes.

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