Death

I don't want to die with a mustache, or wearing running shoes, or wearing a sweater. I think I would like to be wearing a white shirt, and probably shorts, maybe black shorts. It's not that I've really thought a lot about what I want to wear, it's not like I've planned my death out or that I'm suicidal, but death-thoughts happen. I remember many times driving my motorcycle, and thinking of whatever was in my backpack or bag, or what I was wearing, and that I would literally not want to be caught dead with them. Not because there's anything wrong with them, but they just seem ridiculous. Like my mustache seems ridiculous, and running shoes.

Here's how I imagine my death:

I die because of human malice or because of absurd chance. Often at night when I'm standing by the road, and cars pass, I imagine someone inside the car will gun me down. Strangely, though, that's not really how I see my death. My death is during the day, when lots of people are around. Maybe a stranger knifes me. In any case, I end up laying on the ground, bleeding, and people crowd around me and say things. But I don't say anything, I don't moan. Maybe I lick my lips. And I cry out of both eyes, but I don't say anything. And the sky is clear, or maybe overcast, but never rainy. Usually, it's sunny. Funny, I often wear something on my head, and for the past four years my hair has been more long than not, but when I see myself dying, my hair is short (relatively), and I never have something on my head, and I'm clean shaven. But really, it's not my death that I imagine, it's the dying. My imagination never takes me to the ends of things, to the actual point of death, maybe it can't.