He is held. He is worked on.

Somewhere in it, he starts speaking to someone. A message, maybe — or just what the body invents to keep going. He isn't sure anymore who it's for. The face has slipped, the name has slipped, only the shape of loving someone is still there, held onto because it's the last thing left to hold. Maybe he's forgotten who they were. Maybe there was no one, ever, and this is just love aimed at whoever comes after, sent out and hoped for rather than remembered.

An homage to Sarah Kane's Cleansed