He is spent. His mind is mercury again, its brief surge of humanity melting into an oily residue on its surface, and he no longer understands the feelings he felt in that strange moment on the overpass. But he did feel them. They did happen. They rest on the murky seabed of his mind, buried under sand and silt and miles of grey waves. Patient seeds waiting for light.

Is this muteness a real physical handicap? One of the many symptoms of being Dead?Or do we just have nothing left to say?

I wish people were willing to dig a little deeper than the surface elements of a premise before tossing one story in with another.

The moment the light went out, everyone stopped pretending.

I've always been interested in writing from the perspective of an outsider.

We're fumbling in the dark, but at least we're in motion.

No praise, no blame. Just so.