Am I dying? What does this mean, really? Why not that guy over there — a tourist feeding bread to fat pesky seagulls? Is this justice? Fate? Bad luck? Mari, Mari, suddenly I have so many questions. I always thought of death as the ultimate answer. But it’s nothing of the sort. There’s no wisdom in impending death. A terminal illness is brutal. It’s a wall. All connections, all thoughts, all actions, all the world is made meaningless, and suddenly I am doomed, and so desperately alone. But then isn’t everybody? Because, fuck, just think about it: we’re all doomed. And not a single sympathetic look, not a single sincere friendly slap on the shoulder, not a single kiss full of love can heal this bleeding wound. We are all alone, Mari, and we are all going to die. And suddenly you think to yourself: “Well damn it, I have to do something genuinely great, and quickly. And, of course, make up for all the mistakes I’ve made. And ask forgiveness of everyone I’ve hurt, and . . . and . . . the list goes on. You know, the human stuff we forget to do while we’re still alive. And after that kill myself, also preferably really quickly. I don’t want to degenerate into a mindless creature, begging for more and more painkillers or, what’s even worse, being turned into a lab rat.”