Exponential decay.

This is all so...evanescent.

I feel like someone has told me the day I'm going to die, and I'm just helplessly hurtling toward the center of the void.
There's nothing I can do to stop my progress; the inertia's too strong to fight, but still I scream without a sound, dragging my fingernails through the cold, blank space, hoping against hope to clutch something--anything-- to preserve myself from the slashing reality of the terrible unknown.

Lacerating my sanity, one day at a time--
Exponential decay.

Despite my confidence in the ocean, I've been sucked into a riptide. I tear at the inscrutable liquid, gasping for breath in the isolating darkness, but my lungs are filling with salt water, and my eyes are glazing over.
And there's nothing I can do about it.
I'm clutching for a handhold after falling from a cliff, and my bloody fingers scratch at passing rocks in the painful vanity of desperation.
The sick feeling inside knows it was inevitable that I step from the cliff in the first place,
that it really was my choice--
I just didn't expect it to hurt so badly.
The impending pain leaks into every cell, one by one,
metastatic cancer of the thought.

It's coming, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

The limit of a constant as x approaches infinity is zero.
How's that for irony?