Can we talk about something else? So, Hello.

Out there. Death by itself is hard to accept, but when it's forced upon you, forced against nature to happen at the will of a killer,

it's surely impossible to yield to with any grace.

The murdered, I'm certain, have always fought like hell when given the chance only giving up as an

attempt to take some control playing dead in the hopes of opening an exit or claiming

up to mute the pleasure of a sadist.

The final moments of any murder must be incredibly intense.

Angry, emotional.

Sad, I'm sure.

At the end, more than anything pathetic, on the part of a killer who would

continue to brutalize a broken victim through their pleas for mercy through their

eventual silence even their acceptance of death.

Personally, as I get older, the thought of death becomes less terrifying and more reassuring.

And only the road weary know what I mean by that.

But when you're young man, man, old man, it's something you barely allow yourself to think about.

I remember friends dying in high school and not being capable of processing it coming down off of

Acid in my underwear staring at my bare legs and feet on a sweaty summer night under the globe and

Ors Lava Lamp and seeing those legs and feet is simply meat for the first time.

Meat doomed to eventual rot.

Realizing that it's all so fleeting, also unnaturally posed to us, is nothing to worry about this life.

Have a Big Mac, drink a Budweiser, watch some football, Carol Baskins, they can't fool me anymore.

And that's maybe a weakness.

...