This is a suicide letter to myself.

It's meant to be written, then subsequently read by me before checkin outta this nightmare. No one else. Though I'm sure it'll be studied like the Torah by grief ghouls... people are fascinated by serial killers and suicide notes. Their morbid desires played out on the page, but they can continue subsisting in their paint-by-numbers existence.

Having never written one of these before, obviously, I'm floundering a bit on how to begin. Rather than try to structure this formally, I'll simply have a conversation with myself. Recount the final countdown in somniferous detail.

Despite the obsidian sky and frigid wind whipping off the sea, a woman's stumbling up and onto the beach walking an oversized poodle. Her husband and little girl disappear into the dunes. The woman looked through my windshield, deep in my face, as if she had such a right to do so. Behind her a few disheveled dopes climb the ramp, heading onto the sand. To my left and right are enormous symbols of American excess. Expensive forgeries constructed with low-quality materials. All to give the appearance of wealth. Of achievement. They're manicured and well-kept, but rotten inside.

Just like us.