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      These drawings are words from a diary I kept while tending to

my dying mother.  By intent, they are hard to read.  Shards of script

appear through smears and erasures, documenting casual observations

mixed with complex emotions of anger, love and caring in the hours

when I felt all alone, living the last day every day.  

​      The diary was somewhere to run to when there was nowhere to

go.  Someone to talk to when there was only me.

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