The Story of A Dying Man

He loves to share stories of his year abroad all the time. I appreciate his passion and excitement, but for whatever reason(maybe you can have too much of a good thing...) , I have little appreciation for his descriptions of the Colliseum in Rome, or Night Clubs in London, or the canals of Amsterdam. He has most recently left to spend a week in San Francisco before spending a year in Korea. The stories will continue.
My house guest shared a story of an evening at work at the Emergency room at the local hospital. "A young black man was shot in gang violence and was laying on an operating table dying," he says to me at breakfast. "He was wearing nice new Nike shoes and had his cell phone clipped to his belt. He looked like he was trying to look really good and he did. But none of that matters when you're dying.."
These are the stories that move me. Something profoundly human. Something about dying. Something about living. Anyone can go to Rome or Seoul, but few people watch a young man die while looking his best. Maybe these stories are the ones that especially move me because I wouldn't want to be in the position of my house guest. I can be privy to something I would never be in the position to, or would even want to, ever experience. Tell me a story. But if it is something I want to personally experience, tell me what you have to say, but I would rather experience it myself. If you want to move me by your words, tell me about a journey you've taken without even leaving the place you call home.