I collapse. I fall. I simply refuse to support my own body anymore. This fatigue that takes me to the floor is nothing new, but finally I stop the struggle to place one foot in front of the other. I give up, I give in, I give out. Every part of me melts in this, every cherished memory in flames, burning me from my core to my mask. I feel such exquisite rage, but nothing of it shows through now. I want to hurl myself against everything and anything, breaking it or me, but I stay here on the floor, in silence. I can see everything down here, all the dust that collects under my couch, all the food that missed my lips now spoiled and wasted. What happened to who I was? Where did he go, and who is this imposter who refuses to fight? Everything breaks, everything in broken. It’s not in me now to resist, not in me now to care. It’s broken, I’m broken. I just lie here, letting the coolness of the floor permeate me, thinking perhaps it will stop these fires, but I know the cool is a passing thing, the fires will only go out when there is nothing left to fuel them. I am the lumber, the kindling. Food for the flame. I can’t even feel the burning, only the melting. I have become a puddle of wax, a charred wick, the scent of celebration and cake. Old, perhaps too old. There seems nothing left to do, no way to do it anyhow, and no desire to try. There is nothing left of me in this burning shell. Not even the smallest spark or ember. Just the ash of my passing.