Should I continue writing this?

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    You know, every time that infinitely small moment you're living passes, your chances of living go down. Think about it, it's all mathematics: You have a certain chance of living and taking certain paths or dying by certain means, you could instantaneously explode at any moment, there's a probability anything will happen even if it's extremely low. In the next moment of your life, someone may fall from the sky out of God knows where and land in your living room with $3,000,000,000 in their pockets as well as some food stamps. There's a chance anything could happen, and everything does happen.
    I heard a ring-my doorbell-and paused the music blasting in my ears, set aside my dinner, went through the ritual of moving books around to get to the door. Books I haven't read in years, books I can barely read, books half burnt in fires, books that are against the reading of books, books about God, Lucifer, the Earth in between. Books about-I need to answer the door.
    I wasn't expecting him. He, in this case, is a man, tall, white, blonde hair, dressed like he robbed a punk laundromat. He entered my home and sat down on a copy of Lolita, at which point I nearly stabbed him as that was, by a good width margin, the best book I have ever read. He got the idea and found a seat.

I agree with everyone, so I'm going to try and rewrite what the OP posted:

Right now, at that very moment, everything could happen. I tend to think, and believe, that we were all born with a certain amount of heartbeats. And with each one slipping by our grasps will leave us slowly, and sometimes painfully, dying. And this is when the overwhelming sensation of loss and infinity gets me.
You see, those littles pumps will never come back. they'll never be saved, or retrieved. by the time you're just thinking about them, you've lost a good opportunity to do something great of yourself.
It's like a timer bomb in our chest that 007 will never be able to stop before it reach his own 0:07, because we don't even know when will it reaches zero. It's the fear of death in us all, so childishly represented with a matterial concept. It could happen right now, to anyone. maybe you will never be able to read past this phrase, because ding! time out. so long and thanks for playing.
Am I taking pleasure in this? No. Am I satisfied? More or less. At least, I'm satisfied I think about it myself, instead of being told what to believe by any scientists, religious zealots,  or psychotic philosophists.
So, death could happen, right now, at the same rate it could not happen. some call it fate, other God, but I like, for this one, to bend on the science side, with the quantuum laws. superposed states of all that is and is not. Add to this our self conciousness, our own choices, and you get the infinity of the living.
I will not drown you in statistics, about the chances you'll get to explode spontaeously, about getting shot while driving, about some thief comes crashing down on you – litteraly, falling from a plane –, with millions of bucks with him. Barelly enough to cover the roof repairs, uh?
In those times, I often reduce thoses eventuallity with gruesome deaths. while it could be meeting the woman of my life for turning left on the sidewalk instead of right, or avoiding to meet in the mall this long-time-no-see dumb friend from high-school who pummeled me numb from his mindless stories.
By the time I get carried away, I add to the equations the murphy laws, even if they're not considered real laws, and pity myslef as I drifted away from my reads.
And amidst the infinities of stuffs that could have happened to me, it just rang. my doorbell rang, with a tremendous three-time blow to the wood, unleashing the obvious cascade of events.
Me getting up. Me turning the blasting music off. Me setting aside my dinner tray. Me moving out of my ways the thousands of book until I get to the door.
By the time I waddled through thoses thousands words, I could see again some books I've never read. Some I stole, dare i say rightfully. Some I saved from the fires of the government. Some I couldn't decipher. Some about the truth, the wrong, the Gods, the Devils, the Earth and all the reasons about little to nothing. Some of the last books about forbidding to read anymore. I consider myself as a safe haven for those piles of papers. Adn still, how many have I lost. How many treasure were gone forever.
turning the hilt of the entrance door, there he stood, waiting head down, but still impatient. I wasn't really expecting him, well, not this early. tall, white and blond hair, he was dressed like he just robbed a laudromat of punk chicks. His multicolored jacket stung my eyes, as his holed jeans and crappy boots raped my sense of fashion.
He entered quickly, a lion trapped and scared, and started fondling the pages of the first book he layed his hands on, like it was a prepubescent and naive schoolgirl. I almost was to stab him where he stood for treating this fine piece of litterature – Lolita, how's that for a coincidence, mighty fine indeed – with such carelessness. stopping reading the cover, he then read in my eyes and catched my drift easyly. He so proceeded to take a proper seat in the living-room.