No one knows why, but second only to eating the brains of the living, the dead love affordable prefab furniture.

Oh, I get it," I said. "It's a parable. Cute. Let's go eat.

Oh, we are but soft and squishy bags of mortality rolling in a bin of sharp circumstance, leaking life until we collapse, flaccid, into our own despair.

Not unlike the toaster, I control darkness.

I know that even now, having watched enough television, you probably won't even refer to them as lepers so as to spare their feelings. You probably call them 'parts-dropping-off challenged' or something.

I think there was always some scrawny dreamer sitting at the edge of the firelight, who had the ability to imagine dangers, to look into the future in his imagination and see possibilities, and therefore survived to pass his genes on to the next generation.

And an inky-colored despair of rejection enveloped me like the black tortilla of depression around a pain burrito.