Sometimes I hear things. Weird noises in the dark. Still hanging around just doing my time. I can’t talk poorly about the dead or talk bad about the living. I’m not a judge or executioner. The only cure for this life is death. And death always demands more death. Struck down with the disease of terminal living. Call it transitioning, crossing over to the other side, dirt nap, passed on, long gone, croaked, untimely demise, checked out, left the building, kaput, belly up feet first, or any other name in the book of the dead. Читать дальше...