A writer’s life is pristine. Sleeping and waking are merely 2 points in an eternally long day.
You are alone, in the blackest of spaces. It is scary. You are scared. Somehow you know you’re dead, but you never imagined what death would feel like. You’ve always witnessed people die, but you’ve never really questioned what it means to die. And now you’re dead, and you know there’s no going back.
They say you see a light and a tunnel when dying, but they lied.