What Remagen wouldn’t realise, as Donald prowled past him, just at that very moment as Donald's head rose, that these would be his final hours on Earth, and that a stroke would kill him later that night. Remagen wouldn’t know then, of course, that the Moonworts and Coralroot Orchids scented wind, which blew across his face, and which cooled him under the relentless summer sun, would be one of the last sensations that he would experience. Or the sound of the Moonworts and Coralroot Orchids swaying gently in the wind would be one of the last sounds he would hear. 

Perhaps if he'd known he would have taken the earpiece from his ear and walked away from it all, out across the green and into the wind for one last time. His arms outstretched under the sun.

Suddenly, we see Donald again, but now he's in black tie, leading an old, spindly, grey-haired white woman in a red dress by the hand down a series of steep steps. Waving once more as he goes, his wispy straw-dry hair fights the wind and the world against it. While the raptor-like spindly legs of the old woman, knees bent at 90-degree angles, tentatively fights gravity, seeking solace with her high-heeled feet on each step, slowly at first, toes first, before placing her full weight down.

Theresa, the old, spindly, grey-haired white woman, and Donald, the wispy-haired white man with the blood-orange face, make it to the bottom of the steps and then turn towards me and smile, still hand in hand, waving once more. Theresa’s pained smile fades and dies each time her eyes meet a lens of a different camera, and flashes from the multiple strobes, freeze her in time again and again.

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