I'm sitting in a bar. A place where they all collect. They come together with smiling eyes and open hearts and sit, drink and just shoot the ****. They are all noteworthy people, not a boring or reserved soul among the bunch. And they share stories of their highs, lows and purgatories.

One of them, his name's Jimmy, tells the story he always tells when he's teetering between coherency and slop-talk. He tells of how he died. He hopped in his car one day, and boy did he love his cars. And that particular car, the one his heart stopped beating in, was his favorite. He sped down the road, his hair blowing in the wind and his hand beating the side of the door as he sang "Strangers in the Night" as it blasted through his radio speakers. He wasn't drunk, he never really was fond of drinking when he was still breathing (he says being dead is depressing and alcohol is the only thing that "assures" him). His car swerved sharply, it was raining, and he just couldn't control the hunk of metal. His head hit the windshield before he even knew what happened.

Jimmy looked down at his Jack and Coke and smiled. His eyes, now drowning in salt water, glistened off the cheap fluorescent lights. He told me he never got to tell his mother he loved her. Never got to tell his girlfriend that he thought they were meant to be. Never got to show the world that the man hidden behind so many layers of insecurity and recklessness was a man that was going to span time, generations. And I look back at him, my mouth curling a little and told him that he might not have gotten to talk to his mother or his girlfriend... But he **** well made his mark. After all, he's in a bar filled with dozens of people with stories not unlike his own. And he's talking to me. Me, with my chest inflating and deflating as it filled and emptied itself of sugary oxygen. Me, with my eyes alive and blinking and shining with life. Me, who is alive.

At least, I hope to God I am.