If anything, I pity Death, for it can only stare like the beggar at the feast never partaking of the living. Why I was here, on the earth, alive and thinking, I could not say. My soul was my own concern—than and now—and despite having no philosophical bent, I feel confident stating in this memoir, that the only times life made any sense at all, was when I touched someone I loved. All else was dross. Morbid? Perhaps. But to those reading this in some utopian future, you need to understand that survival was not an abstract concept.
Rather than read each individual drabble, you can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters. For easier reading, once I have posted all 30 drabbles, I repost the entire chapter in 3,000 words.