Years later he had found a notebook in an old jacket. He didn’t know where it came from, or who had written inside. There was a familiarity with the words, but nothing he recognised.
He was older now, and sometimes he shook so badly he couldn’t move.
They had moved him to a place where people tended to him. He didn’t know who they were.
Sometimes the world felt colder, and the end drew a little nearer. He’d sketch words in the air but wouldn’t remember why.