Many cycles of the sky have come and gone. I still grow slowly stronger, but this body is still too small and does not work. I no longer feel the pain in my butt. The cloth covering it has died. Much of mother’s clothes have died, and the chair we sit in seems as if it may die soon.

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The grass has died. I do not understand. Why does it all die? Is it all so weak?

I must fix it all it seems. Mother does not like dead, and I do not want her sad.