That there was a point in my life, not so long ago, absolutely and not for dramatic purposes, where I became convinced I was going to die before today, my 30th. The thought made me into everything I was, occupying obsession. Then it became something else, something literary, which will become something else, something literary, which will become something else, something literary. Right now I'm trying to think of a brilliant way to lead myself into saying something trite yet poignant like, "This is my life," but there I just said it, and exactly as I had hoped.
Soon, I'll meet the next one. Another thought, that is. I may have already.
