We but slip between realities, perceptions. I am not as stable as I seem.
Tomorrow not coming is an event for which we must always prepare, however consciously we do. A misstep or a sudden seizing up of once functioning organs could bring a close of the grand curtain.
I intend on lingering long after the physical form is dust. Let my shade hang about, a loiterer in forbidden lands. I'd be the cold in the dim room, the smell of old life that wanders past for a moment, or the blur in the occasional photo.
Die? Not soon I hope, though I've got my plans.
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