When you’re young, you can change at the drop of a dime – something harder to come by with the passing of time. Your life fills up, library shelves, an archive of days.
You plan your liberation like an outlaw the night before the hanging, a gigolo on the morning of the wedding day. But escape escapes you, and before you know it, yours is another life spent, a nickel in a parking meter, a postcard without a message, a faded picture in a frame. The frame is how you see your life – maybe straight, maybe a little crooked. Maybe barely hanging on to the wire balanced on the screw in the wall.

Then comes death, greatest pickpocket this world has ever known.

When it comes to dying, you’ll be rich as the richest and poor as the poorest. You’ll be out of luck, out of time. Deeds aside, you’ll pierce the veil. You hope to look good as you pierce the veil, but you might have a bit of rice on your chin, or be so emaciated your family hardly recognizes you. It’s not likely to be a graceful or beautiful death, but you never know.

When it comes to dying, who’s to say?


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