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Updated on August 21, 2011

I'm in a crowded room. There was a friend who I arrived with, now lost to the sea of strangers. There is a fireplace in the corner in which I am standing. I am bleeding. Badly. Too badly to form words. No one notices me in distress; I wonder why. I wonder: Will those who never knew me wish they had? I wonder: Will those who hated me be glad? I wonder: Will my parents be upset at me for what I've become? I wonder: Will they even notice that I have been bleeding for a long time? Will they be happy? Will they be sad? Will anything I've accomplished out live the out of date typewriter in which it was born? Will my words be true to their meanings or abandon all hope as I have done to them? Will my friends realize how important they have been to me? Will their hearts skip a beat? These are all things I suppose you can expect to feel when you are dying amongst an indifferent audience. All the little voices, so cynical, in the back of a mind damaged ever so much by an ever so damaged Earth. These are all things that we so boldly suppress for so long during our realatively insignificant lives. We worry about ourselves and the minute impact we have. So now I'm sitting. The same corner. The same fireplace. I'm holding on, looking to the orange ocean that is the fireplace for some sign; some reason to hold on longer than I have. I start to wonder: Will my old high school carry on classes? I wonder: Will tribes in Africa feel pain for my death? I wonder: Will the moon stay in orbit without my soul effecting the gravitational pull of Earth? Cut to me, looking around once again to the party goers that surround me. They too are bleeding and I can't help but wonder: Do they notice?


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