Imagine, for a second, that you are of the air, ethereal, a cool brush against a willing arm. You remember what it is to live, to have color and substance. You remember what it is to matter. Now you can fly, hunt for some shredded vestige of your former life, through candelabra corridors and stands of tall trees at night, from wooden cotton-candy roller coasters to office buildings holding the shadows of the work that was formerly done. You are no longer bound by life, but in death you visit what you have lost. You see it over and over again, and you hurt, and because there is no physical...
Imagine, for a second, that you are of the air, ethereal, a cool brush against a willing arm. You remember what it is to live, to have color and subst...
