I don't want to die now. I'm too young, right? Right?

Wrong. The machine stops, it says. The machine stops.

And I'm the machine.

But there's so much I haven't done. Too bad.

All right. I've come to terms. Just do it quickly and gently. And don't let them cry.

--A brief window into an imminent mortality.

I still don't want to die now. Not this soon. But it doesn't matter what I want. And the world will continue on, not noticing, not missing me. That'll make it all right. Because I'm, like everyone before me and everyone after, food for worms, in the end.