An act of cowardice?
Or an infinite jest?
If there is one thing we should have power of attorney over, it's our own life.
Death is no big deal.
Nothing within this universe can disappear from it.
I'm either entering a new existence and will have to deal, or I'm out like a lightbulb-- so who would be left to care?
No, it's the pain inflicted by the method used that scares me.
Hanging would be icky.
(I'd rather not feel constricted in my final moments.
Or will we soon hear diagnosis of the Hutchence Syndrome?)
Was DW running from relationship or to oblivion?
Was it a reaction or a response?
Is psychic torment a requirement for art?
Who writes when they're happy?
People who I project cool smart hip excellence upon always startle me when they inevitably fail to live up to what I already know are my own projections of cool hip excellence upon them.
David Foster Wallace is one of those people.