I will die soon, I know that for certain. The same summer will come, the same fall and winter, wrapped up violently in the same half-spring (as I’ve come so reluctantly to call it), will, without fail or deviance, come, I’m sure. It’s been 17 hours since the 13th beginning and in writing, for the first time this Year, I can’t help feeling a tumultuous trembling surging through my insides, a dizziness, a thought that grips me, that slaps me in the face, drags my eyes to the wall clock shadowing the typewriter intermittently, and a hundred times an hour tells me that I am wasting time. I will die soon, I know. I will die April 13th in a death, which in my most morbid lapse I’ve determined will last 7 minutes and 6 seconds. My story is a story of numbers, of faces, and metered movement. And yes, the allusive nature of my life (if you can title such a beginning and end[?] as so) kills me. That most stable of certainties, above the seasons, TV cycles, and the contents of newspapers—the dart-sure affirmation that this is all a joke, that someone, somewhere, is pulling the strings and never gets tired of the same show, still gets me. Even in the brightest pockets of the Year, the knowledge—that He is a child pressing the life from his crying creatures—sucks me into a morbid humor I never knew to exist. And that laughter that echoes up from the world’s bottomless wells can cocoon me ‘til half-spring in its blackest madness.