The shadows of the room pool in the lines of our faces, draining our eyes of hue. "There's nothing left worth saying.

I am Dead, but it's not so bad. I've learned to live with it.

Regret is pointless. I never do anything without first deciding to do it based on facts and feelings, and if it doesn't work out how I hoped, oh well, there's another notch on my experience belt.

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

A month ago there was nothing on Earth I missed, enjoyed, or longed for. I knew I could lose everything and not feel anything, and I rested easy in that knowledge. But I'm growing tired of easy things.

Not so easy, Mr Lennon. Even if you try.

My "heart". Does that pitiful organ still represent anything? It lies motionless in my chest, pumping no blood, serving no purpose, and yet my feelings still seem to originate inside its cold walls. My muted sadness, my vague longing, my rare flickers of joy. They pool in the center of my chest and seep out of there, diluted and faint, but real.