It really depends on how fast you are flying and at what angle you hit the window. That split second decides your fate. I hear the hit. It’s unmistakable. I check to see if there’s any hope. Sometimes you revive, I’m relieved and I sing a little joyful song. And sometimes you never wake. Then I’m left, holding on to your little body, wondering how I can make your life well lived. I can’t do much, but I can draw. My drawings can’t come close to your actual beauty, but it’s insurance nonetheless. Insuring that yes, you brought beauty, and we noticed, and the world is better for it. Thank you.
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