I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

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What exactly is a sign? In the corner of my eye, I felt death. And he put his hand upon my shoulder. His touch caused my heart to skip a beat. A sign?

Well, I’m no sign expert, but I would have to say that death giving you a slap on the back is pretty up there. Then again, you’re totally fucking nuts.