Composing Letters

If I am to take inspiration here from any book in my library, then it would be from F. A. Hayek's "The Road to Serfdom." More exactly it would be that of its preface: opening with honesty. I'll admit that I only have the vaguest idea of what this book is about, but I am certain of that which is contained in the preface; where all excluding the contents, for I will not act as though I have read that which I have not, of which I can wholly suggest you read. This rabble is merely wafting the towel rather than wringing it dry, so what exactly is this about? It's about meaning, or lack thereof, and death.

One of the more sardonic ideas as of the last few months has been that of my suddenness to die. Truthfully, these are exceptionally neurotic and insidious thoughts (and I must state that this is in no way a confession or farewell) that keep my brain busy in the dark drowning my duvet, to my all too isolating hours at work. But I see no worth in playing with these thoughts when they do not occupy me, so I shall cease animating them any further. However, there was an interesting gesture that came up; why not turn these into letters? Given the hypothetical that I were to cull my life short the next day, what would be most valuable to leave behind? For myself, that would be a genuine piece of my character; regrets, gratitudes, and, in essence, a will.

So here forth I hope to share my letters, composed to the near-anonymous in my life, by a man moments before his death.