Imagine being told you have six months to live. You have a terminal progressive disease that's eating away at the white matter of your brain. You'll soon lose your ability to speak, walk, feed yourself, and eventually you'll slip into a coma and die. No one has ever survived this. Surely you won't either.

As the months progressed, the doctor's warnings come to fruition.

You slip into a pseudo coma, laying there in total darkness, for months.

The nurses chat about their bad dates in front of you, flip through television channels,

and discuss the certainty that

your death will soon be here.

They don't know that you can hear them.

They're certain you're no longer in there.

Friends and family visit less and less.

Now your only visitor is your wife, a wife who is certain you'll never recover, and who

begins to whisper strange admissions in your ear.

It is here, helpless in your hospital bed, that you realize what may have gotten you here

in the first place.

The scariest thing in your room is no longer the potential of dying, but rather the person sitting right next to you. I'm A

I'm

A

A Let's getting into this, man.

This is Jay Candle. In the building Let's get into this, man.

This is Jay Candle, in the building where he and I first met.

We lived in the same apartment complex in Boston.

I had walked on to the elevator and asked how he was doing,

a cordial hello to a neighbor I didn't know.

...