I think of Corinthians, and Paul, and the second coming of Jesus, and the transformation of this mortal flesh into a glorified body. When I might taunt death. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting? But then the sharp, hissing pain flares along my stomach and I think: the sting is right fucking here. Death is a moment and a state, a finality. It is the state of dying—the long drawn-out act of it—that is definitively worse.
