That's typically what writers do; we just sit around complaining most of the time. And the better things are going, the more they complain.

One wild card was yet to be played.

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

So many humans. So many colours. They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-coloured clouds, beating, like black hearts. And then. There is death. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.

Stealing it, in a sick kind of sense, was like earning it.

At first, all is black and white. Black on white. That's where I'm walking, through pages. These pages. Sometimes it gets so that I have one foot in the pages and the words, and the other in what they speak of.

I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.