Still here. Still dying.
The world is finally turning again, the frigid cold piercing the world like a needle, following the grooves of the roads to make a cacophonous symphony of leaves crunching and cars honking and humanity slowly deteriorating into nothingness so profound that I can do nothing but sit and watch and wait. I'm feeling poetic today. I feel... I feel, first of all, which is something that hasn't happened in a while.
I question these memoirs. If that's what this has become. I question the validity of it, the purpose, the reason behind it all... But I'm not going to stop writing. By no means can I abandon this course of action.
Still here. Still dying.
Just struggling with time.
death
