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Dead. Death. You & Me, we're going to die.
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Not together, as ace as that would be. That'd be really ace.

I'd love to embrace my friends, best mates, acquaintances - whoever - as the fireball hits, as the Earth crumbles beneath our feet, as the missiles are launched, as the water rises, as the plane dives, as my heart fails or as my kidneys kick out their last breath. But I won't.

I'd love to be there, watching your eyes empty, knowing It has to happen, that there is no choice. I'd love the prior warning as much as I am looking forward to the surprise. That it is necessity. It is the way we are built, and it is the way that everything (can you comprehend, for a minute, everything) has to go.

I've never thought about Death, beyond my own and the odd over indulged suicidal... dalliances (heh). But I suppose I know a bit more about it, what it is, and what it'll do...not so much to me, but those around me, when it finally comes.

Sure... i've seen those fingers, green and rotten, waiting to drop from a hand. What happens to the body, how the blood drops from your face, your nose, your eyes. How it pools, and stops. Turns solid and ages like... anything else. Paint. Jam. Mud. Blood. It's all the same. Inside or out, it just stops and means nothing. Before that, fuck knows what it means. Google hemoglobin for fucks' sake.

But what and why? Where and what and fucking why. I can't pretend to be too angry about it, because I finally have an understanding. What does that mean... that it'll happen.
And we'll be sad.
All together.
And it'll pass.
And everything will resume.

With or without you.

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Not everything resumes. Not only the physical stops, and not everything resumes. Nor, I think, should it. Sometimes being expected to find what's been lost is harder than not having it in the first place.

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