I thought what if death is more like thinking, well, war is like the boss at your shoulder, constantly wanting more, wanting more, wanting more, and then that gave me the idea that Death is weary, he's fatigued, and he's haunted by what he sees humans do to each other because he's on hand for all of our great miseries.

Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.

She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.

The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.

Have faith, Ed, all right?' I search the coffee mug, but there's none in there.

Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.

Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky, dark, dark chocolate.