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  • Writer's pictureBitsandpieces



Sometimes I think about dying, well, I think about it a lot more than perhaps most. If I’m outside, I think about it at least once. But I think about it in passing, like a stop sign or a broken fence post. It’s fleeting and like a whisper, almost kind.

It’s also usually in a violent way. Like being hit by a car, or a train, or someone shooting me on the face while I’m in the back of a cab.

One of me is always in a spy movie. Being chased, watched, and hunted. My walls tapped with cameras and microphones and me “performing” it’s not a real world place but a real world place. My body can believe it if I done keep my imagination in check.

I wonder how many other people think about their death, in passing.

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