Sunday, June 3, 2018


It's been 18 years since I almost bit the bullet, passed on, crossed over, croaked, bought the farm, kicked the bucket. We joke about it, until it stares us in the face. Death, that is. Then it's not so funny. You come face to face with being here one minute, gone the next. I sometimes wonder how things would have been had I died. You eventually come to a painful realization that things would have gone on without you. The most you can muster up is, you hope you would be remembered. Your only shot at immortality...being remembered. The question becomes, remembered for what?

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