My name is Arthur, and I've been dead for 3 months and 16 days.

I’d sum up the hours and minutes for you, but I've since lost the precision of thought to do so, not to mention the attention span to take notice. I couldn't tell you the rate of cell degeneration that is occurring inside, but I do know that my brain is breaking down. I’m burning out the last of my precious chemicals.

I haven't got the scientific background to explain it any better than that. I'm not versed in human anatomy. I'm a writer, and a mediocre one at that, so you'll have to take this account for what it's worth. I've got just enough vocabulary and sense left to sink this one last testimony.

I forgot my middle name today--I shouldn't say "forgot." It won't be there, waiting in a drawer or a coin jar at home, with all the other loose items. Nothing sticks around except the steadily accumulating smell. I tried washing and only managed to pry some of my hair loose. Now I chain cigarette to cigarette: as it turns out, people expect smokers to stink.

I don't think my lungs mind, either, if they're still hanging in there. I've really got no idea how many of my organs are actually left. My memory is another thing. When I first noticed it going, I wrote whatever I could think of about myself on index cards, but eventually I ran out of reminders. I ran out of my own life before I ran out of paper; that ought to mean something.

I've got no business wasting all that paper, anyway. My will is written: "Whoever you are, you can have everything." I can't remember if I have any family. I know I have a suit that's been sitting in plastic since my last work interview. I have a typewriter; I don't know if I've ever written anything worth a shit. I don't know.

The more I forget the less I feel like trying. It's the natural course, isn't it? I’m shedding all the heaviness, severing those life fibers. I wander around every night without being recognized--you’d be amazed what a dead man can get away with in this city. If I put on a hat and pump my decaying legs for all they’re worth, I can make it out in the ranks of the living.

The smell of rot isn’t a problem when the whole city stinks like a sewer, and I’ve got nothing but time to waste until all my functions cease. Nobody notices the glaze on my eyes like nobody notices the homeless people, or the hopeless children, or the hookers. Funny, the one person that saw me for a dead man was a hooker. She spat at me when I tried to light her cigarette.

I got this far and I haven’t said anything about my life. Trouble is, my life can be summed up in one sentence: Arthur didn’t realize he was alive until after he died.