Shit happen. A fall, from bed. A hope that things will get better, and, on a morning, being unable to stand up. Lost forces, as hope that dilute in grey eyes. Blurry morning, sharp pain. Ambulance, urgencies, worries, a lot of. In the end, not that bad, but still. At 93, the light become heavy, the less become the more. As memories dilutes, time pass by, and cycle again. A week become a day, a day become an hour. Permanently rebooting, as the memory fail.
We are our own prison.