What’s left of my father

When I look at my father all I see is body. I see a pile of bones, some flesh and a dim flame that’s been burning for far too long. Where once was a mountain now rests an abandoned field covered in snow, but he sets himself on fire in order to keep himself warm. My father is always breathless, like an actor after a performance, he crawls back to his body and sews himself back into his old skin, hoping that it still fits. My father is no Van…

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