It's a strange feeling, being so utterly surrounded by her. Her life scent is on everything. She's on me and under me and next to me. It's as if the entire room is made out of her.

What wonderful thing didn't start out scary?

The past is made out of facts...I guess the future is just hope.

Peel off these dusty wool blankets of apathy and antipathy and cynical desiccation. I want life in all its stupid sticky rawness.

The moment the light went out, everyone stopped pretending.

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

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