I think I have captured something of what it feels like to be a man standing on the brink of death. I apologize to readers if they find them no more than sketches or mere drafts. Journaling seems to be a form of writing somewhere between fiction and essay. When paranoia, humility, or shame take over, I raise my critical sense—and it reaches its peak—and make the necessary corrections to correct errors and mistakes, and try to distance myself from that dark, murky, contradictory, and vulnerable side of existence. I strive to do something powerful. When, as now, I am overcome by the desire to put something in place to acknowledge what is coming, I speak without thinking. Of course, there are always masks; Except when the pain, anger, or ingratitude that strips our souls bare