Terminal Condition
We discussed the idea of September for the first time today, right now it’s only August, the days of which are in the terminal stages of some sort of disease the doctors as yet don’t understand. I slept through today’s round of treatment, if you can call surrender that. I’ve been alive, truly, for ten years now, and I don’t mind making myself patently aware of that fact. It’s funny how, for all it’s boldness, youth doesn’t fight back. In fact it’s quite an elusive fighter, having found itself in a war it never wanted to wage, and has no designs on winning. There are no fortresses of redoubt, no bastions of youth, simply a lifetime of fighting along diminished and increasingly timid frontlines, vast armies put asunder by the mechanized legions of time, pressed relentlessly onward by the hordes of death and non-existence. I vowed to fight, ten years ago. An impassioned plea the first time I felt it necessary to comment on these dying days. My mind is still for it, even as the gray of bat...