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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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