My grandfather, Papa, as he's called, will pass away very shortly. By the end of the week, I predict. That's 6 more days. 144 hours. 8640 minutes. 518 400 seconds and counting.

It's fucked up. Here we are diverting our minds from a person that none of us would exist if it weren't for. Papa was a modern pioneer. He came with nothing, and moved his family over one at a time. He built the lake house my father grew up at, and that my fathers children grew up at. He always lived within his means, and never was want for anything that I ever knew.

Now, that great man lies in a bed, wearing a fucking diaper of all things, as he stares at a hospital wall for the seconds he has left. He's waiting to die, and we are waiting too.

I can't imagine what he's experiencing. He'll never see the home he built again. He'll never pet his dog again, ride the boat again, drive the av or his car again. Life, in all aspects but the word, are over for him. It's unfair. He has all his wits with him. He knows what's happening. I don't want to know what that is like.

I don't want to die like that. I want to go to sleep when it's my time and never get up.

Today, a great man might pass on... But maybe not.

Irregardlessly, today, I fucking hurt.