Are we all just Dark Age doctors, swearing by our leeches? We crave a greater science. We want to be proven wrong.

You might say that death has relaxed me.

Enough white lies can scorch the earth black.

In my mind I am eloquent; I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts. But when I open my mouth, everything collapses.

It’s sad to see them staring wistfully through the window when the door isn’t locked.

I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.

Last winter, when so many Living joined the Dead and our prey became scarce, I watched some of my friends become full-dead. The transition was undramatic. They just slowed down, then stopped, and after a while I realised they were corpses. It disquieted me at first, but it’s against etiquette to notice when one of us dies. I distracted myself with some groaning.