The water in the shower runs warm down my body, and I close my eyes to feel it better. I flex my fists and breathe in steam and feel the boundaries of my body against the air and the water and the world.
The thought intrudes suddenly, bringing with it a certain regret, that one day, without a doubt, I will be dead, and that one day shortly after that one there will be no one who remembers that once I was alive.
“I really should start writing my Four Each Day again,” I think, and turn the water as cold as I can make it.
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