The Insomniacs.

When the day comes that you find yourself flat on your back, watching the lights go out for the last time, and all you've got is you and yourself... what's the conversation gonna be like? Will you comfort yourself, play the victim? Will you offer weak lies before your own ego and the eyes of God, playing the numbers trying to make yourself out as a good man? Will you cop out as your blood temperature drops, and claim that all the bad things you've done-- the trouble, pain, sorrow and strife that you caused-- were done out of necessity? That you merely did what you needed to get by, and that your hand was forced in every crime against humanity-at-large that you've committed?

Will you be consumed by guilt, and expend your last worldly energy in desperate wails to the heavens? Repent and beg forgiveness from an uncaring deity? Plea for mercy from the deaf ears in the darkness? Will you wallow in sorrow and slip from this earth as the same slimy, contorted figure that was thrust onto it all those years ago? Will your last moments be marked by screams and despair? Or will you paint yourself the hero? A martyr for one, abandoning ownership of your own fate, because it's not your fault?

Or maybe, just fucking maybe, as you lay dying, you'll become the man you never were in life. The one you always wanted to think of yourself as, but never could quite measure up to. Maybe after trying to cheat your way through the world day after day since you were brought into it, you'll have a moment of truth. Maybe you'll say, "That's it. That was me. Every deed done was mine; a direct result of my very own cognitive volition. I did what I did. It is what it is. I know what things I've done, and I die by them now. I am a sinner. I was just another foul mark against the human race." Will you say this?

Will there be peace?

Res Ipsa Loquitur.