I lay there thinking about death for the first time in my life. Not death on my terms—the jacked-up energy of a close call, the sick relief of a lucky break—but on its terms. The great gaping pit that has everything and nothing inside it, including your dead father. It’s not in a hurry because it doesn’t have to be; it’s just there. You’re the one in the hurry, rushing this way and that, and then suddenly the pit is swallowing you and the room and the world and all the light in it. I thought about that version of death for the first time. The version that isn’t a thing; the version that is
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