To my knowledge, at the time of writing this,
I am a hundred and seven years old.

I am unable to die at any cost.
Even at whatever old age it'll take to finally kill me,
my funeral will end with a tacky synthesized sting as
I rise from my grave, one hand sticking up from the dirt.

I've tried to die before, you know?
I've tried multiple times.
Poison and hanging and falling from a height,
none of them seem to be enough.
Even if I am shot or hit by a car, it won't stop.

Where do you go when you die?
At least you can get out of here.
There's no escape for me.
Endless cycle. No way out.

There was a time the terror got to me so deeply, the idea of the exact configuration of atoms that make up the cells of my brain - whatever it is that stores my thoughts and memories, my continuity, some day, in eternity, being by accident or otherwise reassembled, became too much to bear.

I started to wish for an end to all existence instead;
the long night.