"I knew death. I saw death. I've caused death. I have all the time, right, and all the reasons to say all this, but this, right now, is an interview. In world TV. In front of everyone to see.

          Thus I can't."

          These words kept wringing inside my head, like a recorded voicemail from an internal megaphone, that as time passed since I read this part of the book, I started to remember and recall it almost every time, not as text in a page, but as words, coming from the mouth of the character himself. This has been going on for weeks now, and I still can't stop being allured, captivated, by that part.

          I don't know how others do this kind of job, but just before yesterday I was sure - and excited - I'd become a journalist. A real journalist, the kind that goes around strolling and roaming the world as much as they have to, searching for a story to write, an idea to cross their minds, lucky instances to land their paths.

          But what the fuck.

          What. The. Actual. Fuck.

          The day grew colder as time passed by. The wind was conquering every corner of the streets, its powerful yet soothing presence moving almost everything around in varied motions. Newspapers flapping. Clothes waving. And with it, the dry leaves of deciduous trees came rushing through, on and about the place. I felt the cold much better, creeping into my hands like tight plastic bags wrapped nicely around and specifically for each, not letting my sense of touch escape from the indicators and signs of nervousness, uneasiness, and especially excitement, about what this day has come to be.

          I'm going to meet the author. Right here, in this place. And I'm the first to make a story about his writing.

          And I can't disappoint.

          This is the first and probably the best opportunity I will ever have. Shit. I couldn't wait for it to happen, my big break. I'd always hoped it would go well even days before this moment. And it did, it did. Only, I didn't expect this much blood. And pain.

          I've always admired his writing - the concrete settings, how realistic everything always were, how engaging and more gripping the stories only become throughout. I've always admired everything about these, but I never thought that I'd be a part of it. That I'd get to be the character 

          who weeps.

          Who bleeds.

          Who... dies.

          I cover my stomach as blood came gushing, continuously and violently through. I wanted to scream, yell out. For someone to help. But the words wouldn't come out, and all I could do was grunt, pant, and look like a helpless idiot who can barely even stand. 

          And he's just there. Walking towards me, ready to slash my neck open.

          "Don't worry. You'll wake up again," he grinned.

          The last thing I remember was the slashing of my neck when I woke up.

          Huh, now we're talking. Idea.

          "I know death."