A torn digital note from an anonymous doctor who can't save her.
She mentioned sentinel-like cottonwood trees and a green pond, old walnut trees and a rope swing, she said there was a tall white clapboard mansion in need of fresh paint. She likes curled wood, and she said the fence was cupped, black with age and from heavy water that had drenched the boards for some time. She said the home had large wedding bay windows, strange childlike ghosts that would peer back at her and leave their dead breath on the glass, there are miles and miles of untouched fields and dark woods beyond where her eyes can go.
She said you can smell the cows, it's a rich odor among the boxwoods, her crestfallen valley within the bottomlands and mountains beneath the sun, a tired barnlot in which there are curious owls and abundant hay for her horses, the dirt is smooth like flour, she spent some time here hiding from the others, scratching things into the old wood, and tracing the flat stones in the unkempt grass with her hands, saying that the world will take her life.
