the n is still dying. according to her family she is almost gone now. i don't think she should be allowed to die without me. i would like to be there, to read to her from her maeve binchy library and have afternoon tea in bed and watch ice skating and laugh when they fall on their glittery little behinds. and i would finally win all our arguments as she doesn't speak anymore. she doesn't read either, which is much much weirder. the n is the definition of reading! we always discuss flowery summery beautiful novels. writing letters feels strange now. it feels like i'm writing to her daughter, with the n as some kind of third person. not personal enough. and not time enough either. sending letters on fridays now feels scary. so much time to die before it reaches her. and she never got to go to russia. shitty shitty winter!  ¶ 7:19 PM