As one who has just died finds their bearings among the many rooms of death, they quickly stumble upon a set of circuit breakers. Down a short hallway, past the closets that hold Jupiter, Saturn and assorted brooms, mops and cleaning supplies. Past the courtyard where all the unused tornadoes are kept. There, in a large auditorium behind a heavy brown curtain of blood, are rows of switches with names beside them. Those left behind in the rooms of life find that feelings long dark are flickering on again. Maybe they begin to listen. Forgive one another for terrible things. Bury all the brutally murdered dreams and really fall head first in love.

I'm drunk again. Got a little Jack Nicholson on either shoulder, both dressed neck to ankle in little red suits. They hold my pitchfork for me when I want to do something bad. Something fun. Something dirty. I'm mostly evil, just like everyone else. Sometimes, however, when those around me are really alive, or when they die, I listen, forgive, and park the drive to knock people the fuck out.

It's when we're forced to feel around in the basement of blown fuses and shorted-out lives that we keep our fists up. There's no end to the terrible things we can do to each other in the dark.

Life and death are honest. The shit between scares the hell out of me.