I wonder if dying men get bored. I wonder if right after the life flashing by and before the real end they have a moment to stop and think and realize that they don't have shit to do until they're gone. No more parties to plan, attend, or not. No more errands to run or books to read. No more TV shows they have to catch, fancy dinners, pot de crème, caviar, crème brûlée. I wonder if in that brief moment the only thing keeping them from utter boredom is regret.
I wonder how close to death we really are when flush faced a breath catches in our throat and time slips around us. I wonder if that pit in our stomach that forms when feelings we cant figure out with a strangely absent brain is less a seed and more an anchor. I fear the king tide that could overcome me and thus, I fear you
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