your battery now runs on reserve power.

nine minutes of my shot battery left. the urgency of it gives speed to my resistant fingers. 8 now. 7 now. the minutes tick down. 

6. in between the minutes i've erased all the lines i wrote. was going to write about the constant gardener... that movie dave and i watched the other night. it moved something deep inside of me that i haven't felt in forever. 5. it's maddening that i don't cry anymore. unless it's about that one thing. but africa, you don't make me cry anymore. after the thousandth thing that should have made me cry, i just stopped, and i see that picture so often. or those pictures. 

4. 

and in the movie, i didn't cry about all those things that should be heartbreaking... the murder of his wife. the senseless, merciless killing of the patients for the testing of dipraxa, the TB drug. and the drug companies get rich off of it. 3. that death should make me cry. 

but it doesn't. didn't. probably won't. because the only tears i could force out of my locked up insides came from the shots of the scenery. the flamingoes flying. nairobi. the serena hotel. the one jill and bethany joked with me about. 2. the overexposed, stark shots of little boys and girls clutching the mzungu woman's hands, pulling... like the day above naivasha... 1.

the girl pulling jill's hair. bethany lifting huruma kids. all came flashing back like waves overpowering the water of the shower as i hit the wall. 

reach inside and feel the beat of your pulse. 

computer dies.