We are beings-towards-death, said Heidegger. Death is not some far-off . . . sudden point. We carry it moment to moment. We cross it from moment to moment. We are death mules with no destination. Just “towards”. Two words. Fall in. Fall front. Face first. Eyes closed. Death. There is another gap to bridge. What is death like? Imagine. We can never exist at the same time as death, said Epicurus. But don’t we? Is this not death’s bridge we are standing on? Ok. We are off. On now. Back down. Here again. Shiver at the forever first step on the wooden planks of death’s bridge. It’s wet and not rotted. Over before we know it. On it again. Crossing it is sinking down. Is going up. Is becoming more three-dimensional. Is speeding up. Is heating up. Is melting slowly into the veins of the wood. We can never guess where this bridge ends. Begins. Sand blocks between the water. Dry as bone. The paper between printed words. Soft as stone. Being has requirements. It builds death’s bridge. For us. We must. Shine our shadow over it. If death is a lighthouse we are its gasoline. Its penance. We are the ship and the closing distance. We’re the collision. Cake crumble concrete. We are so many cats landing on feet. We are this moment dead and that moment reborn. Again. Again. Again. We are the bridge we take moment to moment. We are.