Pretty Sure it's Stickboy

If it doesn't kill you, it will make you weaker. Human life is an arc, it must conclude, and we are not meant to die with perfect hair, unblemished skin and perky breasts. I am so afraid of the end, the darkness and the drowning, that last gulp of air, the memory of every compromise and sin. How will it end? Cancer? Alzheimer's? A ten-car Turnpike pileup? To die on America's most hideous, malodorous road, when I'd had such grand ideas. To writhe in pain just south of Newark Airport, near Jersey Gardens, and measure all I left unfinished. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Stickboy