Death feels like standing in the snow, naked. Shivering constantly. Wet hair. Aching head. I move like a puppet. Going through the motions. Robotic. Pick up comb. Comb hair. Grab shirt. Place on body. Grab pants. Right leg. Left leg. Pull up. Grab phone.
He does the thinking. I do the moving. Acting without thinking for myself. Impulse. Influence. Do it. Where do I end and he begins? It all feels fluid. Infinite.