Am I fucking sixteen

One of the symptoms that you are about to die is an elemental feeling of impending doom. I have felt doom before, but never, I imagine, so swift, sure, or strong. Who has returned, to tell us, a place where very few living have been?

Yesterday night we were under the glass box holding the anachronistic phone booth in. Dark and smooth; the walls, likely, smooth, if I had been able to sense them. Pressing spare digits on the keypad, for want of something to do, to make metal warmer, and the receiver spanned my cheek: ringing.

I must speak plainly, as far as I can remember it. You were so close. I could have fallen asleep. Leaned my head against your shoulder. And your drunken breath, our drunken palms.

I have felt this before, but never so swift, sure, or strong.