__I honored her struggle; it was so very important to me, due to a similar situation that occurred in my very immediate family. I tried to think as she might have thought, and thus, this short view was written in 1985, just prior Karen Ann Quinlin's final breath. Now I repeat it as haibun.
__Fifteen years I've looked out of my window, I, the sentry of mortality... watching and listening, and wondering. Why?
__Reasoning, judgement, and my involuntary breathing all converge in a clutter of echoes that linger in my hollownness. I can't feed the birds that I imagine visit me, or whisk away those flies that offend by leaving their specs on my brow. I can't wipe away my tears, or scratch that ugly itch in the small of my back, or clear my clowded throat. In this stony siege, there is so little that I can, and so much... that I cannot.
__Those looking in, insult me with their thoughts of pity, but I can't argue my displeasure or spit out my words of fury. I try to speak, but the sound's path is blocked, and the only reward for my struggle are these lonely tears... in the sour corners of each eye.
__Gaping through this glass they watch me wither. These gazers... see me as themselves, and I their proxy, signify their anger as they approach their own Act Three. Locked in their desolation, that inescapable tunnel, they voice my voiceless wrath as they search for their own eternal and infinate survival. Their rage, in facing their own life's truth... peaks, as they watch and realize my bizarre existance. They do not see.
__Looking out, in leaving... I shall remain; I wonder why I see... what they cannot?
I shall remain