The art of not dying.

First, you have to not care. If you want to stay alive, you may end up dead unawares. Second, you need to provoke it, like raising your fist at god on the mast of a swaying sea in the least gentle of storms. Finally, you will fail. Someday you will fail. This is the most important part of the art, the failing. If you learn to fail with perfection you may end up failing at the very moment you're supposed to die and live until, well, the next time. The difficulty you may find is in between those visits from machinery and reapers, in the moments you have to listen to a storm brew in a coffee cup with torrents and gales of caffeine and norepinephrine, with tides and swells of anxiety and serotonin all overwhelming and drowning and leaving you without enough air.
Still, you live. Through every memory, reliving every desperate moment and dark swirl in your teacup of a psyche. Hell is not other people, it is you without air, without peace or breath. You can clutch at your throat, you can blow your nose, and you can open the window but all you will find is city exhaust. The wings of pigeons will blow dirt into the uprise of exhaust, and you will choke on your uvula. And still, you will live.
The quietest part of the night will be too not quiet, and your asphyxiated sleep will be ravaged by dreams where you are one of the pigeons with no legs anymore that must fly with your exhausted fat belly, your pendulous corpse on tired and dirty wings that are broken and torn. You will choose to land in your dream on the river, to find respite in buoyant and iridescent oil but that water will weigh your wet feathers down until you wake up in panic, gasping for air in the tomb that is your room.
This is part of the art of not dying. It has nothing to do with vitamins.