The trees of her body failed a day in September to keep in line with the norm of things - the cancers spaced in between with their awful architectures, economic soundness, idiotic arguments, the most fuckers of nature, "such fuckers" she thought during her last breaths.
In life she was a poet, painter, published a paper in Science, studied the world she loved and some she didn’t and now, the little cancers were scattered like chalk on a chalkboard inside her body. "The little fuckers" she thought, "all of you." Then she thought: "The trees know best, follow the trees. Make them Gods in your world of future, or else."