the end

A year and two days ago, I found a dessicated bird on the balcony rail. Either it had recently and rather artfully fallen from the roof, or we simply hadn't noticed it for a couple of months—probably the latter since I vaguely remember having seen a dark spot on the railing, thinking it were a branch, a clump of dead leaves, something vegetal blown off a tree in a storm.

This is how it ends, more or less.  

What if, instead of waiting (for what exactly?), instead of always looking back, I started from the end and worked backwards?

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