Day Two. 3.30am

His collar was too tight. He unbuttoned it. He never got over how the sound of gunfire sounded exactly like the firecrackers he heard as a child every Chinese New Year. They afforded him clarity. In the situation room, he knew Obama and Hillary were watching, and he didn't care.

For him it was simple, follow the directions and ask no questions. Obeying the chain of command was a critical failsafe. All he could see was the dark night and the Pakistani compound where his target lay. It might as well have been a snatch thief, he didn't care. For him, it was just a job like any other. It was the only way he could do it.

Day One. 10.35am

"If no one needs you, why are you here?" He thought to himself, "You're only as valuable as what you can do for others." That can't be true. Some people like you for who you are, not what you can do for them, certainly.

"Well then, where are these people, Personal Jesus?" The demon asked, sitting in the edge of the couch. "Look around, my prince! Where are your loyal subjects?" He looked around his room. There wasn't anyone there. There hadn't been anyone there for months. He has no record of human existence besides fallen strands of hair on the carpet and specks of dandruff on the floor masquerading as dust.

"Who loves you more than me?" asked the demon while putting tobacco in his pipe. "God? Your mother? Your friends and lovers?" The Beast laughed the roar of a lion. "What fools these mortals be." He shook his head. "My dear, sweet child, the kindness in your heart is your weakness. Vultures feast on your carcass while you live and you're thanking them. I must be in Canada."

The room smelled like wet towels and unwashed underwear infected with fungus. His gastric juices were eating the insides of his growling stomach. He hadn't showered, shaved, or seen another human being in months. "Where did they go?" He asked the demon, who was having a glass of whiskey on the rocks. "They didn't go anywhere. They're still at the center of their universe," he said shaking his glass while the ice cubes clinked. "They will do as they please regardless of your painful objections but wherever they are, I haven't seen anyone's face but mine pop up here whenever you're on your knees."

"What is this? Some kind of test?" He asked the demon in the purple suit. "What the fuck do I look like? God? Surely, I have more faith in you than that. You need to relax, my child," said the demon as he poured himself another drink. 

"I remember a secret I told John the last time he was here, "said the demon while putting his arm around my shoulder. "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."  

When no one is around you, my darkness will keep you company. "It's for selfish reasons that I'm watching over you," said the Beast. "My star needs someone to follow. It shines brightest during the darkest of nights." The morning star destroys all shadows.

Chesty

Day Two. 8.27am.

His chest hurt when he inhaled. "Must be the smoking." He couldn't take too much of a deep breath without wanting to cough. "Must be pulling all the filters out." He'd bend his cigarette filters and tear them out of his smokes so he inhaled unfiltered carcinogens and tobacco. "Why kid yourself?" He figured if they were killing him, he'd give them a head start.

It was his birthday tomorrow. When he was a kid, he'd be surrounded by friends and family, cakes and jokes, gifts and hugs and nice clothes. He was a star. A three feet tall star with endless potential and a love for fantasy. He'd tell jokes about golf and lightning and God and it made lawyers laugh.

He doubts that he will even see anyone tomorrow. He doesn't see too many people these days and spends most of his time in his room in hiding. A few times a week Sally might call him for lunch and it gave him an excuse to wash his face and brush his teeth and eat. If she didn't drag him out of the house to whine about her boyfriends while they ate, he would probably eat nothing.

She has no idea that all her complaining was inadvertently keeping him alive. He wasn't sure how much more weight he'd lose once she leaves the country next month. Probably all of it. Again. It wasn't the first time he's been neglected, but hopefully, it will be his last.  

Day Three. 1pm.

What would you do if you had three days to live?

Would it make a difference to anyone around you?

Would they know you were gone?

Would they know you were around in the first place?

Would they know you were there?

I don't know if it would make a difference to the lives of those around you.

If they didn't notice where you were when you were around, why would they pretend to notice after you've gone and can't come back?

I don't know. I think meditating on death gives whatever days of life leftover a brighter resonance.
Maybe life and death mean nothing if no one notices. But even if there's no one around, I have my books and music. Whatever plain of existence I end up on up, or if I just turn into worm food and fertilizer, at least my departure would bring some oxygen into the world when I breathe no more.

It would be nice if someone could push a button on their iPhones and hear your voice. If someone knew you were here, maybe you wouldn't have to go. It's not that hard to stay alive, But sometimes, people think you being in their iPhone book is a waste of their time. I'll save your batteries and turn into one. I'll turn into petroleum in a million years and be used in some vehicle of the future for some yet unborn kid to get to school, whoever that kid is, it won't be mine. I've gone the way of the dinosaurs. It's a countdown to extinction. What did the Brontosaurus think when it saw the meteor fly across the sky? Nothing.

Her Vomit Is Worth More Than Your Life.

She sent him a picture of her friend throwing up into a toilet when he told him he thought about killing himself.

"This is what I have to deal with. Sort yourself out," was the accompanying text-message.

Thinking about that picture makes him wonder why he didn't hang himself that day. A drunk friend with her cheek on a cold toilet seat was more worthy of her time than the ending of his life that day. He imagined that if she did get a picture of his lifeless body, she would not as much as change weekend dinner plans. His life had value if it was useful in her fictional idealized future. If it didn't, his life was insignificant.

It had been raining all day and he hadn't left his room. "What's the point?" He wondered. He saw a CD by the Beatles on his couch, Help. He got it a two years ago when he was editing The Village Voice. It had come in the mail. He loved it. It was broken in two on his couch now. It was her favorite band.

"Who gives a shit, John? No one cared while you're here and everyone loves you when you are dead."

Happy Thanksgiving.