Hope is a feverish disease, and I am sick with it. I find myself incessantly yearning for another day, another hour, another fleeting moment, as if the mere extension of existence could cure the ailment that is life. But that is never enough, as to hope for more time is to yearn for an escape from the abyss, yet the abyss stares back, unyielding.

In the chaos of what is my mind, I imagine what I could accomplish with more time, and that makes me realize how terribly, terribly terrified of death I am. Have I not traversed the path of a life worthy of retrospect? Is this all I shall come to be?

When the cruel jest of hope relinquishes its grip, I find solace in yearning for a swift demise. Such is the paradox—the morbid fascination with a demise I fear so deeply.

I am drunk on the idea that death won’t catch up—but it always does. I suppose that is the beautiful thing about it, though. The dregs and kings of society all take their turn dancing with death, and so will I.

Goodbye, and may death take my worries along with it.