"I'm not happy in my job.  I don't have anyone that I love.  I find my life to be frequently boring.  But is that any reason to kill myself?  I went ninety-nine years feeling much the same way, and I didn't cut my throat.  And the things I've just described would probably be true for a large portion of humanity.  I keep living for the same reasons I think so many of us do.  I'm curious about what happens next.  What will tomorrow hold?  Even if it's much like yesterday, it's still worth finding out.  My pleasures may not be as many or as joyous as I'd wish them to be in a perfect world, but I accept that, and it makes the times I do feel happy all the more treasured.  Again, just to be sure you understand me . . . I like life.  Not all the time and not completely, but enough to want to live it.  And there's a third reason, too.  I'm afraid to die.  I don't want to die.  I suspect that nothing comes after life, and that's too foreign a concept for me to accept.  I don't want to experience it.  I don't want to go away, to cease.  I'm important to me.  Who would there be to make unkind, snide comments to myself about everything in life if I wasn't around to tackle the job?  Who would appreciate my internal jokes?

"Do you understand what I'm saying?  Am I getting through?  I don't want to die, I want to live!  You tell me I've tried to kill myself four times.  I have no choice but to believe you . . . hell, I know I believe you.  I'm remembering the attempts, parts of them.  But I don't remember why.  And that's what I want you to tell me.  Why?"

"You act as if your self-destructive impulses are my fault."

I thought about that.

"Well, why not?  If you're going to start acting like a God, maybe you should shoulder some of God's responsibilities."

"That's silly, and you know it.  The answer to your question is simply that I don't know; it's what I'm trying to find out.  You might have asked a more pertinent question, though."

"You're going to ask it anyway, so go ahead."

"Why should I care?"  When I said nothing, he went on.  "Though you're sometimes a lot of laughs, there are people funnier than you.  You write a good story, sometimes, though it's been a while since you did it frequently-"

"Don't tell me you read that stuff?"

"I can't avoid it, since it's prepared in a part of my memory.  You can't imagine the amount of information I process each second.  There is very little of public discourse that does not pass through me sooner or later.  Only things that happen in private residences are closed off to my eyes and ears."

"And not even those, always."

He looked uncomfortable again, but waved it away.