The forever of my father's death, the having to face it every day until I die from it.

Ten years without him. Ten years lost. And how many more are left?

So scared of death, of its eventuality.

Are we ever alive when, at the moment we are born, we are going towards death? Aren't we always in a state of dying?

I get it now--life is killing me, life is handing me over to death. I am not safe.

I live for the end of the day when I can crawl into bed and melt into dream.

Writing is my only possible resistance.

I was never here. I've never been here. I will pass from this life as I entered it: forgotten.