He's going to die. He knows it. Everyone knows, but no one will speak the words. We watched him disappear; saw the color fade from his cheeks, the light from his eyes, his very mind disintegrate. He was what you might call handsome, but when we look back on him we are surprised, for now he has the look of a child, and holds fear in his heart. Still he continues to take his medication, fights one foe just to be told that another has been found. We pretend not to notice. We invite him out. Keep him in good company. But every time we say goodbye, we mean it in the most final sense of the word. He is to young to move on. In his case it would not be to pass on, but to be stolen away. He has to much left to do. To many things yet to be experienced. There is not enough time. There is not enough time for him to lie on his back on a warm summer night and gaze at the stars. There is no time for him to dream, for his dreams turn to darkness. There is no time to just sit and do absolutely nothing, for it may be the last nothing he ever does. He is afraid of the dark, for it is that that will consume him. He is scared to fall asleep,for he may not awaken. He cannot bear silence, for it is that which awaits him for eternity. He fears death. He envies his friends; they will lead full lives while he has only begun to live. Although he is condemned, he must go on. He must persist. He has to fight. He has to try. He has to live.