The last time I was dying did not hurt this much; less pain resided inside of me back then.
Just before you die, all the sediments of pain raise and morph into a whirlwind which only intent is to leave you. That separation hurts even more than harboring the anguish, but this time I endure. After the agony of the detachment is over, the pain is gone. If I could feel, I would rejoice. But, I can not; I am gone, too.