Warning: Ugh. This is bad--even for David writing.

Try as I might, I can’t slow the days. Most people want to drag out days, see how long they can pull out the putty of time. For me, I don’t have many of them left, and I want to use each of them to the best of my ability. I’m not writing this out of sympathy. I don’t want your sympathy or your kind wishes. I have enough support for both, and more would be like whistling on the wind. Instead, I want to share with you my experiences. I want you to learn something from my mistakes, and I hope that by sharing this with you during each hour of every day, the hours will move slower and I’ll be able to savor them for longer.

I won’t bore you with the details. My death is coming, and while I don’t welcome it, I’m resolved and content with my life. This isn’t about pity. I’ve said that already. I’ve spent my last days talking to everyone and anyone that will listen. I walked the streets and searched for listeners. I didn’t want to tell them my life’s story. I didn’t want to tell them anything. I wanted them to tell me about themselves. I know the information is going to disappear in a few weeks. I know that. My brain will decompose, and all of the great information they told me will be no more. But that’s what I’ve done my entire life, and I couldn’t stop now that I know it’s the end.

When you try to speak with random people on the streets, you find more people willing to talk than you expect. The streets were wet and gray when I walked them this morning. Most streets are that way. I rambled about for hours on the street with vendors and people rushing off to work. Many confused me for a beggar. They’d listen with half an ear, ready to bolt at the first mention of money or needs, or unfortunate situations. When I tried to explain that I wasn’t after anything, I was doing more of a science experiment, most would warm up. Some would continue running, throwing back an excuse about their time or obligations. A few of them were honest, but others were scared to talk to me, afraid it was a scam. I don’t look much like a college student anymore. The last twenty years has aged me beyond that look. But what I do have is an open face. I try to look willing and open to new ideas about all the things that they’re interested in hearing about. That’s what I try to get across to them. I’m interested in who they are, deep down within themselves.

I’m trying to leave a mark on the earth. I don’t know many people, and when I die, besides the lawyer who will handle the details, I won’t be missed. I doubt the lawyer will miss me much either—well, he’ll miss my retainer, I’m sure, buy not much else. That’s why I decided to do something with my life. This is the story about my last hurrah in the face of impending death. What I want to make of myself in the last seven days of my life. I either have an illness or a death threat—probably the latter. I got involved with the wrong people, and my time is about up. I could make a run for it and live on the lamb, but it’s not who I am. I pay my debts. They gave me seven days to close up my affairs. I plan on using every moment to right myself. I know it’s too late to get a spot in heaven, if heaven exists. I’m okay with that. I just want to leave the world a little better than when I came.

You would think someone who is going to die soon would not spend all of his time typing away at an internet café. This is another part of my plan: to record these moments in the hopes that when someone reads them, I’ll be able to convince others that I spent the time valuably. I don’t know why I care so much what other people think at this point in my life, but I do. I guess I’ve always been the type of person who looked for others to tell him he’s doing a good job.

I’ve lived a pretty fucked up life up to now. I don’t pretend that it’ll get better any time soon, but I have little choice now. It’s ending. I’ll go out honorably, at least as honorably as a man in my position can go out. I’ve come to terms peacefully on my claims. What’s more for me to do?