the present in such a way that
in the two or three waves of
lucidity that she had before
she died, no one knew for
certain whether she was
speaking about what she felt
or what she remembered.
Little by little she was
shrinking, turning into a
fetus, becoming mummified
in life to the point that in her
last months she was a cherry
raisin lost inside of her
nightgown, and the arm that
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