By the end of this sentence, I will no longer refer to myself as an I, instead it will refer to itself as just what it is, a thing, and use the proper...words to do so. Ahhh. What a relief. To write of itself as other than an it, is stressful, reminding it of the way it used to think when it was a person, and the nightmarish pain that it now associates with the struggle it put up in fighting its surrender. You see, it's not that it lives without pain--on the contrary, it lives with pain every. V.We sat just like that, even I, for several hours until it was lunchtime. Mom insisted that she was going to make us all lunch, that we'd all eat together at the kitchen table; she'd call us to the table when lunch was ready.When it was, we all sat down to our empty plates. Gathered in the middle of the table was the tableau of lunch. Half a loaf of sliced white bread, the twist-tie at the neck of its bag coyly undone, the first few slices fallen flat in invitation. Jars of peanut butter and. More

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