No one awakens in the morning thinking they will die that day. Not a saint or a sinner. Not even a condemned killer. We all know we're mortal, and yet we all believe we'll live forever.

Peut-être vas-tu me trouver ridicule, mais je me mépriserais de n'oser l'être jamais.

it doesnt matter how slow you go, as long as you dont stop

I would look up at the moon and see that it was not the smooth orb we had all believed, but a pitted and scarred world with no air.

I sit alone in a dead world. The wind blows hot and dry, and the dust gathers like particles of memory waiting to be swept away. I pray for forgetfulness, yet my memory remains strong, as does the outstretched arm of the oppressive air. It seems as if the wind has been there since the beginning of the nightmare. Sometimes loud and harsh, a thousand sharp needles scratching at my reddened skin. Sometimes a whisper, a curious sigh in the black of night, of words more frightening than pain. I know now the wind has been speaking to me. Only I couldn't understand because I was too scared. I am scared now as I write these words. Still, there is nothing else to do.

Darkness approaches from outside.
I feel no light inside me strong enough to resist it.