As I look out the window, I saw a quaint farm. As I viewed its humble beauty, time seemed to stop. I saw the barn, freshly painted red, and the fields, gold with wheat. A harvester was parked by the field, the harvest was soon. That wheat would soon be sent to a mill, where it would be ground into flour. That flour would then be sent to a bakery, where it would be made into bread, or maybe cake. I quite enjoy the taste of freshly-baked bread, and the thought of eating some made my stomach grumble. However, for the next few months, I would not get to eat bread, only crackers. Crackers, and gelatin, as a standard hospital meal consists of. When I looked at the farm, time seemed to stop, but it didn’t, and while I gazed upon the fields, I was unable to see the road, as I rammed into the car ahead of me. While my family looks upon my form, broken and confined to a small hospital ward, all that the other driver’s family will look upon is a dark, rectangular box, being lowered into the ground.