Marie died a few months later, and I know it sounds crazy, but I’m sure it was because of the corkboard. Because what else is there to do but drop dead at that point? When you don’t even recognize yourself anymore, when the person you spent your whole life becoming is a stranger in a photograph and everyone thinks it’s funny that you didn’t realize you’re No One now. Unceremoniously absorbed by the great homogenous colony, the leaking, aching, voiceless elderly, looking and sounding and treated the same no matter what they’d accomplished before they started shitting themselves again.
