The words themselves were dead, and fluttered to the wooden floor like clumsy flies. The owner of our words was wrapped in her shroud and lay in that...simple dark box. And so, a chapel filled with a million spoke meaningless gibberish when we attempted to mourn and speak our greatest grief at losing our gift, our Muse. It seems ironic to me that the one moment when all wanted to cherish and remember the cause of letters loved, and stories told, when it was absolutely obligatory to paint our. Suddenly my hands brushed across a shoe, i stopped and wondered 'what is a shoe during out here in the middle of the floor.' I could not imagine how it got there, than I reached for it again. This time it had a foot in it, I recoiled in horror as my hand felt an ankle. I asked 'who's there,' I felt a breeze and than some one rubbed my head and grabbed my shirt pulling me to my feet. As I stood up the bastard punched me in the stomach so hard that I doubled over in pain as the air escaped from. More

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