Call it a difficult night e-bog

I was grateful for the death sentence the doctors gave me. It meant no more words, no more summons ringing out in hallucinations and fevers, an end neat as the edge of the world, where the sun drops into the sea. I walked through the world saying goodbye with a clean heart. They hollowed my bones for flight. My life moves in me there, urgent as air. There is language that comes up spare and bright as bone from a break. It stands beneath us like rock in the place where there is nothing else left. It is the language of nothing more.