I am supposed to die on the morning of December 3, 2066.
It’s a Friday.
I am supposed to die on the morning of December 3, 2066.
It’s a Friday.
An old boxer can tell you that there is no shortcut to the championship rounds.
Time had eroded all of the silly parts: hair and skin and muscle and youth. It left behind a brittle skeleton walking on a razor’s edge.
I’m in an empty convention center bathroom, staring down at the rows of tiny square tiles, wondering if I’ll see my lunch again.
You’ve never actually seen the world. But you already knew that…