“When people die, where did I go?”
I sit at the desk, holding my pencil.
‘coffin’
A word appears in my head.
“Why a coffin, is that a wooden home?”
I ask in writing.
‘To keep your body for a while, then…’
The opinion in silence.
Can I create a water coffin that seems to be where the latest human birth came from?
Treat us as treasured as when we were given birth.
It is kind of weird.
I stop thinking.
‘coffin is the place.’
The answer appears again.
“Would the desk be my coffin, with this pencil?”
I wonder.
“A coffin for my mind, and body.”
“It is cruel.”
‘That is not a coffin, it is…’
A sentence appears.
“It is a desk and pencil.”
I answer.