I wonder how well she sleeps at night, and what kind of dreams she has. I wish I could step into them like she steps into mine.

We will cry and bleed and lust and love, and we will cure death. We will be the cure. Because we want it.

Here we are on the road. We must be going somewhere.

I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.

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

... we shoved out many hopes and fears into their hands, believing those hands were strong because they had firm handshakes. They failed us, always. There was no way they could not fail us - they were human, and so were we.

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