Shocking, right?

Fuck you, I know it sounds even stupider if you read this in front of my goddamned corpse, but please don't let that tiny detail fool you because I'm about to explain what the hell is going on here.

You're reading what started as a simple handwritten note which slowly evolved into this—a novelised autobiography/suicide letter and my last attempt in this life to feel that I'm kind of good for something.

It's just a dying immortal man's last wish.

It's because I always wanted to write a book. My room, my phone and my computer used to be filled with drafts, with mountains of papers and thousands of bytes telling small stories about love, science fiction, crime and so much more, but all of them had something in common—the lack of an ending. Every single one of those stories came to me in detailed and very complex dreams throughout my life—throughout this hex—and every time they seemed to be near a conclusion, they were simply being interrupted by an annoying alarm clock. And there's also that thing with me waking up inside another dream multiple times, but we’ll get to that in a moment.

The dreams never stopped, but I frustratingly gave up on trying to turn them into books. I just kept writing them every morning mainly to keep a record about which memories were real and which ones oneiric—and for a brief moment in life, I even tried to scribble them on a stave, until all those memories mashed together, and corrupted entirely my perception of reality. Then they just vanished, and I eventually ended up in this loop where I dream no more.

There used to be a time when I imagined myself as an old man writing my memoirs—resuming my accomplishments and victories in a few paragraphs only to feel that I didn't fuck my whole life up. I guess what I like the most about that scenario is that I'd feel my life naturally draining type after type until there’d be nothing else to say, and the full stop would print its ink flawlessly in sync with my exhaling death rattle. 

Maybe someday I'll be full of wrinkles and in bed with my Royal Epoch, happily reviving the good and not so good days of a relatively long life, but right now the only thing resembling that scenario is my forthcoming full stop. I want to write an ending for once—and I want to get my life back as well, so why don't you join me on this sad journey about trying to find accomplishment? Then I can passionately pull the trigger one more goddamned time right after I type the final key.

I'm going to start sharing my life with you, but let me spoil you something about this immortality thing to keep you interested: every time I die, I wake up in another timeline, and sometimes in another universe, but we'll also get to that.

Now that you have the general plot of this story, you can either stop reading, or you can turn the page and follow me back to a place where Goin' home by Dinosaur Jr. was playing somewhere out there.