It sharpened it.

Everything tastes like more when you know the meal is ending.

I had spent so many years half-asleep in my own life that being awake in it, even briefly, even at the end, was almost more than I could take in.

The disappearing woman does not live her days; she manages them, moves through them tending what needs tending, and the days blur past ungrasped, unremembered, a long gray smear of usefulness.

Now, with the clock running down, every ordinary thing came at me sharp-edged and enormous.

The morning light through the glasshouse.