I want to die in my own way. It's my illness, my death, my choice. This is what saying yes means.

It hurts and hurts to have him this close. I feel sick with it.

It was strange how words meant something when they came out of your mouth. Inside your head they were safe and silent, but once they were outside, people grabbed hold of them.

That slow smile again. I love that smile! DId I think he was ugly just now? No, his face is transformed.

Moments. All gathering towards this one.

Three points for the dead slowly prising open the lids of their coffins. They want to hunt the living. They can't stop. Their throats have turned to liquid and their fingers glint under the weak autumn sun.

The inside of the door is glossy white. A total re-paint. I touch it with my fingers, but it stays the same. It's so bright it makes the room waver at the edges. Every few years we disappear.