Dementia Speech Therapy

scrivere_quattro

(hands on my head are smooth. Without calluses. No scars. Fingernails small and regular.
My boss nearly sixty years and I never close a hand like that. It feels like wax. It makes me feel.)

Every time that I support his fingers on the keyboard, I am assailed by the difficulty of writing. The ideas that I have hiding, ashamed. Small.
My eyes are half closed and I enjoy the sound of keys. Click the slightly stronger at the end of each word.
Point, at the head.
I do not see anymore. I never could see. I often feel old and I have no reason. You need a reason to write and I do not think I have it. For this all becomes difficult. I write for myself and re-read. I write because I can not see me. I can not look at me.

If only something would come out for no reason, one day, then know that there are.
I could even see a small piece of landscape.
would be easy if we could look into his eyes, without lying to a mirror. Automatically.
When I look, I look into your eyes.

Sometimes I look at my hands. The
I filled wounds. Burned, hard frosts. Maybe then I might be able to write what in my hand, just read.