I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.

I want a new past,new memories, a new first handshake with love. I want to start over in every possible way.

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

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.

Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?

There is a chasm between me and the world outside of me. A gap so wide my feelings can't cross it. By the time my screams reach the other side, they have dwindled into groans.

I can feel it... the chance to start over, to live right, to love right, to burn up in a fiery cloud and never again be buried in the mud.