This might be my last writing, or it might not; either way, I’m not too concerned. Maybe you should read what I’m writing this time, or maybe not. The machinery is getting closer, I hear its noise, and I hear the sound of gunfire. I see the shadows of death approaching, like a white breeze taking me far away to a peaceful place. I’ve never felt this before; perhaps it’s just an illusion, but I feel a prick in my heart. Maybe that’s the true meaning of fear. The war intensifies as if it’s just beginning, and it’s much worse. It’s a mistake to call this extermination of a poor people a war. How many lives must be taken for this genocide to end? How many children must have their bodies charred and torn apart for this crime to cease? How much sorrow is needed to end all of this? All I want for anyone who reads my words is to think carefully: if you were in my place, would you refuse death? Don’t tell me while you’re sitting on your couch, "Stay safe, fight for your life, take care of yourself," and then turn the page and watch a nice movie. We are not content; we are souls, souls that are taken every day. I deeply apologize for all of this, you filthy world.