Approaching the end, slithering along on the edge of the abyss as I now do each day, a certain thought recurs, with increasing frequency: I'm really a quite selfish man, maybe even a narcissist. No really, I mean it. Today is the thirty-thousandth six hundred sixty third day of my existence on this beautiful but beleagured planet, and I realize I'm doing it again, doing it still--thinking of myself, looking inward, wallowing in the adventure of it all, the thrill of simply being me. The improbability, the wonder of it all. The sheer audacity of imagining I matter, that anyone else cares who I am or what I think. The absurdity of thinking I will be remembered, even for a day, even by my close

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