White men are parachuting down from the sky. Parachuting without parachutes. There are millions of them. Small and white. The giant white town of theirs floating in the sky must have been invaded by some unknown threat. A Bengal tiger I suppose. These small white men must have, at that moment of life and death, ran straight to the edge of the floating kingdom and jumped straight off it. But they did not think clearly, did they? They did not consider the fact that their white fluffy paradise is millions and millions of miles from me. And when they are halfway through the jump, their hands reach behind their backs and try to pull the string to release the parachute but alas! alas! they cannot find that life saving string. They start to scream and wail. Torches are lit and after those flashes, they roar in agony. In pain. When faced with an impending doom (I wonder how they feel) the little white men screamed the colours off their bodies, turning transparent.

They hit the ground.

They hit the ground and splashed into a million pieces. Puddles of liquid men formed on the pavements, roads, everywhere. Rain.

And every time it rains, I just stand in the middle of it, absorbing the scene in my head. I wonder how it is like to hit the ground like that. To hit the ground and splash into a million pieces. They say your soul flies off halfway so you will not feel the extreme pain but I think that is just total rubbish.

It ends there when you hit the ground: porridge of all your human parts spilled all over the floor. Goldilocks must have been scared out of her wits.

The only way to not sorely miss someone when they die is to be distant. That way, you will not feel pain when they leave you. You are not distancing yourself; you are just protecting yourself from getting hurt. It is the only way. You will not be sad that way.