where the writers are
After The Fact

At times like this, he thinks, it’s best to write things down; so he does, and then he goes inside with all the other strangers to view the body.  Some of the strangers seem vaguely familiar, predictably ill-at-ease, and he notes that his reception among them, like the weather, is cold.

Inside, music.  Roses never fade.  We meet again on some fabulous shore.  We never grow old.  Jesus loves us.  Everybody sits and everybody stands.  Everybody sits and pretends to be listening.  No one listens.  Everyone is lost.

 

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