DEATH BECOMES YOU
Creativity is free and doesn’t play by the rules; it isn’t still waters but an overflowing stream. Trying to stop it is not only unreasonable: it is foolish. It would be like trying to reason with an irritable lion.
I lay dead by the crackling fireplace on a cosy Christmas night. My long red hair was spread across the floor, my face as pale as snow.
I was looking at myself from outside my body, the blood in my hair soaking through the white carpet; it was a truly breathtaking view, albeit still unnoticed. My head had been hit with force and I couldn’t fathom how or why. Everything was so confused.
I concentrated on the course of events, then. The last sensation I had experienced had been the unsettling iciness of Death’s hands on my back.
It must be a day of celebrat
