Mark nodded even though she couldn't see. He'd suddenly lost any desire to talk, and his plans for a perfect day washed away with the stream. The memories. They never let him go, not even for a half hour. They always had to rush back in, bringing all the horror.
The dead still come to me every now and then. But the lulls between are getting smaller. They are finding me somehow. I tell them why they can__ move on. I listen to their lives and talk to them if they need it. I still draw their portraits in my sketchbook, with their stories. I put Mary Summer in there too. Someone should remember.
Trying To Live With The Dead
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The dead still come to me every now and then. But the lulls between are getting smaller. They are finding me somehow. I tell them why they can__ move on. I listen to their lives and talk to them if they need it. I still draw their portraits in my sketchbook, with their stories. I put Mary Summer in there too. Someone should remember.
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