an easy hypothetical:
i.
he knows he'd die within the first week of a zombie apocalypse.
if not sooner.
because he's had hundreds of personal z-days
in his slightly less than thirty years.
and he's died
every
single
time.
curled in a ball.
eyes shut tight.
waiting for the first pinch of teeth on flesh.
ii.
sand only protects your eyes.
and even so
it only protects the vision.
that idiot savant, well that's half right
give about a minute and a half for his half life
he knows that there was a time, even as near as three years ago, that he would have been shaking. folded over himself in the corner of the bathroom. his body slowly emitting the sweat brought on by the tensing and retensing of muscles that just moments before would have emptied his stomach. of all but the mysterious gut rot that had led him to this point. the night before.
but now, the night before, in the here and now, he is only plagued by thoughts. this is the progress he has made. the improvements he has slowly built, the method mysterious even to himself.
the fact that he lies awake now, just short of legitimately nervous.
this is the tiny victory he must cling to.
while his fingers rub on the topography that he can't for the life of him remember ever being there before.
hand to his guts.
lips to God's ears.
