We're all dying.

We're all dying.

I'm just doing it much quicker than normal. What is normal really though?
You could die while reading my story. Distracted by it's innards, completely oblivious to the tow truck barreling down your street. You could be dying right now.

We're all dying though. So don't feel too bad.

That's really how I ended up where I am now. In this hospital bed, ticking the moments away. Entertaining myself with thoughts similar to this one.

We're all dying.

They say my time to go is coming soon. The nurses and doctors come to visit me.
My responses to them remain the same as they were before. And their responses are equally as static. They are as cold and emotionally inane as I am.

My life has been fulfilling in an odd sense. Fulfilling in the way I truly wanted it to be. I write this truly in hope that someone will read my story. They will listen to the ramblings of my mind. Shitty metaphors and all. Maybe it will supply bearing to their life, or maybe it will end up as kindling. The last call before my death must be attempted, no matter how bleak the odds of it reaching someone.

My name is Baker, and this is my story.


(Baker's Intro. Book, Intro)