A hundred words to talk of death?At once too much and not enough.My plans beyond that final breathare currently a little rough.The dying thing comes on so slow:reluctance to get out of bedis magnified each dayand so transmuted into dead.I dream of dying all alone,nobody there to watch me passnothing remains for me to own,no breath remains to fog the glass.And when I do put down my penmy memories will fly like birds.When I am done, when I am dead,And Finished with my hundred words.

-Neil Gaiman

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