She is Living and I'm Dead, but I'd like to believe we're both human. Call me an idealist.

Now I’m just standing here on the conveyor. Along for the ride. I reach the end, turn around, and go back the other way. The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy. After a few hours of this, I notice a female on the opposite conveyor. She doesn’t lurch or groan like most of us. Her head just lolls from side to side. I like that about her. That she doesn’t lurch or groan. I catch her eye and stare at her.

I'm not a general or a colonel or a builder of cities. I'm just a corpse who wants not to be.

All my life I have battled the alarm clock, pummeling the snooze button over and over with mounting self-loathing until the shame is finally strong enough to lever me upright.

The kind of stuff I usually read is a bit more on the literary side, like books that I think are influential in the sense that they're doing pulpy subject matter in a refined way. Like 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy, I loved that book.

Soft flesh is eaten by hard teeth.

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