So, a man died. Again.
It’s not my story.
My friend told me – the man had just bought a big house. He had a young wife and two young children.
He was an executive vice president making enough to keep the wolves well fed and away from the door. He had just lost 150 pounds and looked like a man who had never been fat a day in his life.
Day one sick,
day two pronounced infected,
day three pronounced dead.
We’re at the age where this seems to happen.
Not old enough to get a cheap breakfast at Denny’s but old enough to be in the thick of the fray. To go down in the field. One by one, soldiers with a bullet in the forehead.
Shot down ingloriously.
Now, the race is on. And every day without remark is a day wasted, a day placed in the palm of Charon.