The everyday’s deaths

I'm home alone, listening to the Beatles and roasting a chicken. Lennon was shot dead and George died of cancer. Paul and Ringo aren't residents of any cemetery yet, but their turn will come soon and, at this very moment, they aren't less dead than their friends. The chicken I'm roasting, I must say, also had a tragic death.

In that case, I'd be the only one alive in this story, but that's relative too. In a way, I'm also dead, since we're at the moment of reading and the only lucky survivor would be you, the one who's reading this.

But don't get too excited, my friend. I bet you don't know who's going to die at the end of this line.