At this moment I am not on a flight. Not traveling by a car on an edgy hill-way. At this moment I am just lying on my bed. This is peaceful. This is not a chaotic border. Not the middle of the ocean. This is just a peaceful place. This kind of peaceful makes a tomorrow certain. That no matter what happens there’s surely a morning on the other side of a few hours. So, at this moment I lie back with patience. I think about a life eventually falling in place. I see the hazy flashes from the times to come. My parents have come to hugging each other again. That book? Yeah I’ve recently published it. Oh, the new car doesn’t have a hood. And she insists on wearing that little ring I gave her in school. So I build hopes at this moment. This moment that I have taken for granted. As if future is so obvious, and continuity - so inevitable. As if such chances like a one in a million aren’t chances at all. As if every moment ever is just like this moment. Only better ahead, and worse left behind. And then I realize, I have never been so unprepared to die as I am at this moment. That if I am taken by surprise and told of a giant meteor that hits the planet in five minutes, I would wake with a jolt, go restless, and get lost at all that was left to happen, and all that I would miss. I would try, and cry, and crave, and spend my last five minutes as the worst five ones. I am so unprepared that if I know that it ends at this moment, I wouldn’t be able to take a walk, I would run.