My life’s been a circle of violence and degradation long as I can remember. I’m ready to tie it off.
Look. I consider myself a realist, all right, but in philosophical terms, I’m what’s called a pessimist.
I think about my daughter now, and what she was spared. Sometimes I feel grateful. The doctor said she didn’t feel a thing, went straight into a coma. Then, somewhere in that blackness, she slipped off into another deeper kind. Isn’t that a beautiful way to go out, painlessly as a happy child? Trouble with dying later is you’ve already grown up. The damage is done. It’s too late.
Each stilled body so certain that they were more than the sum of their urges, all the useless spinning, tired mind, collision of desire and ignorance.
Death created time to grow the things that it would kill, and you are reborn but into the same life that you’ve always been born into.