I cannot escape death. I mean that in the most literal sense, but also in the most metaphorical.

I keep thinking about writing. I keep thinking about what has been written. I keep thinking and sieving and choosing, nitpicking and weighing. What are the thoughts I want to see the ends of? What are the words I want to be accountable for when I am gone? How do I want to be remembered?

In writing I always seek death.

and that is precisely why sometimes nothing.comes.