He barely made it to the bathroom… it was hard to stand up. He clutched the sink and squinted painfully against the bright lights. Fumbling with his glasses didn't help. Why did everything look so yellow? He fought in vain to breathe, his heart quivering wildly in his chest. A lurch, a stumble, and Pope John Paul heaved out his life on the cold marble floor. Or did it happen this way… Just a note to capture the sudden inspiration, and then he could finish dressing for bed. Would the talk be good enough? Nothing was ever good enough...