I am about to die. It is September 11, and every cell in my body is acutely aware of my looming demise. The certainty of it. The inevitability. Not years from now, not weeks nor days. Moments.

Statistics were magic like this: they could tell you with near-certainty that a thing would occur, without a hint of when or where.

It was a sad loss, this illusion of importance, a humbling blow.

We devolve into animals when we creep near to death.

My only wish is that we leave room for hope. There is good and bad in all things. We find what we expect to find. We see what we expect to see. I have learned that if I tilt my head just right and squint, the world outside is beautiful. The future is bright. There are good things to come.

My life is too tight, he wanted to say. My skin is too tight. The walls are too tight.

Ever since I was twelve, I dreamed of being an author. I just never had the fortitude to see any of my stories through to completion. I would start a book, get a few chapters in, and grow bored or get distracted by something else.