Life in the hospice is death by white. Pleasantly clinical, agreeably antiseptic. What happened once we had eaten her biscuits, passed the greetings card stand and turned left through a reception area empty but full of limbo? As I reversed the car into the ambulance bay and drove out beside neatly trimmed verges, where did her head go? She knew the reason for her stay, a residence with a defined but undated end. How could she lose herself in a purple prosed Mills & Boon she might not finish? Thinking only of the present moment in order to block off natural, familiar brain routes. A big challenge characterising a purely mathematical cling to existence. The past represents lived life, an upsetting prospect in the ultimate waiting room. The future represents nothing, final days are generic. Change comes as the past becomes everything, the present out of reach and the future is what she leaves behind. Three years of past, present and future later, she is still alone in her room and I'm wondering what she thinks, how she imagines life without her. Her deadness doesn't stop her talking to me. Whatever she thought in those stretched hours alone in her room, both present and future remain unimaginable without her.