She watched as a couple of gingersnap-colored cats darted across the road- their eyes on the prize of one particular patch of sun residing on the driveway of a neighboring home. It has been a long time since she has felt so strongly about anyone other than herself. She crossed the street to follow them, checking the desolate road with an abundance of caution as if to say "Look at me! Look at me! I care so much about my life. So much. So so much!" Although who she was shouting this at is unclear. By the time she reached a pet-able distance from the cats they had already risen from their spot and darted under a nearby wire fence. Now so far out of reach of her hands. She tucked her bony fingers away back into her sandpaper pockets and continued walking.

    I wouldn't say I want to die anymore. In fact, more and more it seems I am becoming an ambassador of life. I quit smoking a couple months ago and I'm a stickler about speeding now. I used to find it corny when people preached focusing on the simple joys of life but I guess there is some truth to that sentiment. I feel better. I do. But a part of me is still rotting- I can feel it. I feel it now, standing by the tracks where my dad and I used to melt pennies. I do not want to die but some form of magnetic tar stuck inside me creates an unspeakable pull for me to go lay down on these tracks. I won't do it though. And that's what is really interesting about all of this. I never do it. I miss my dad. I really do. But something about being back here in this town, staying in my childhood home, I feel really close to him again. Now a new thought comes to life: The only place closer to him than where I am now is death itself. The sound of the train grows louder. Louder. And some{thing} urges me to stay.