I suppose I think about dying frequently. Like a cat on a hot tin roof, I leap from bound to bound, saved only by the mendacity catching my fall. But when, and not if, I trip, I suppose it'll be all over.
When you're this old, death follows you. Stalks at your door. Snuffs your friends one by one until you're left. Then you beg death for freedom, and he merely watches you. The bastard doesn't blink, either.
And so I've done it. The impossible.
Died by my own hand.
And I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Or if you paid me, and then I'd greedily hoard your money as my soul left my body.
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Musings and Tidbits
RandomSome writing prompts/random stories (one-shot) that come to me and I feel like sharing :)
