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“When people die, where did I go?”

I sit at the desk, holding my pencil.


A word appears in my head.

“Why a coffin, is that a wooden home?”

I ask in writing.

‘To keep your body for a while, then…’

The opinion in silence.

Can I create a water coffin that seems to be where the latest human birth came from?

Treat us as treasured as when we were given birth.

It is kind of weird.

I stop thinking.

‘coffin is the place.’

The answer appears again.

“Would the desk be my coffin, with this pencil?”

I wonder.

“A coffin for my mind, and body.”

“It is cruel.”

‘That is not a coffin, it is…’

A sentence appears.

“It is a desk and pencil.”

I answer.


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