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Dopamine. Serotonin. Too little. Too much. She was catatonic at times. Some say it’s a sort of hibernation response, but they don’t know.

They’re looking through a telescope. Into a peephole. Through a window into a window into a room. You’re here, you live and you die. That’s all anyone knows.

There were so many medications over the years. The names all ran together. Haldol. Mellaril. Stelazine, Prolixin. The gods, and their small pale wives, Artane, and Cogentin.

None of it touched her. She stood like a dry stalk. Eyes, black as polished stones, lice in her hair and cracked lips.

She could whistle with her fingers. Loud. It hurt my ears. She liked rockabilly and root beer, she was bad at math.

She could not sing.

It hurt my ears.

Visiting days were Thursday and Sunday. I sat at the table and said, It’s a hot one, ninety-three, or, Derek asked about you.

She said nothing. I wanted to slap her, hard. I wanted her back in the world I lived in without her.

She was not coming back. She chased the gods and their small, pale wives with a root beer. And now I want to drive my fist through the ground, grab her and say, get back up here you bitch.

Too little. Too much.

I knew her through a window.

That’s all anyone knows.

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