My garbage bag had holes in it. I didn't notice until 7 minutes later when I realized that while breathing had become harder, it wasn't getting any worse.

I feel light headed, I am dizzy, but I have no means of obtaining another garbage bag and my razor is too small to cut through more than a couple layers of skin.

It's funny - as I was laying there, I was comfortable waiting for blackness. Anxious, but mostly comfortable. I then began to think "All the poetry running through my head, wouldn't it be wonderful to show it to someone one day? To let people know what it's like to feel your breath becoming more forced, how your head perspires in sweat from the heat of your breath." Even in death, my mind is my enemy. Tempting me to stop.

But, alas, my bag had holes in it. Alas, alas.