I watched a water bug crawl out of my coffee cup this morning. I was reading Henry Miller. Reading his take on the death of Mishima. I thought of killing the bug. But, then I thought, maybe he has a right to live; just as I do.

Mishima killed himself. The death of an artist. I have had these thoughts to finalize the deal. And then, I think of sticking around a while longer.

The water bug crawled across my desk. I read more Miller. The thoughts of death went away.