Maybe there is no answer

February 8, 2012

Maybe its not uncommon. To know someone who seems to have popped right out of pulp fiction. Let’s called him Phil. He was a drug trafficker. And a ladies’ man. He read Dostoevski. Was a fabulous chef. Generous. And paranoid. I called him a friend. The last time I saw him he had a gun. And seemed terrified. Of someone. The Mystery of Edwin Drood is based on his life. You could see a movie based on his life.

The Mystery of Edwin Drood was the last novel that Charles Dickens wrote. It was unfinished. This story is not an attempt to complete that story. Rather it is about mystery. What we never understand about people. Our friends. Ourselves. About why we go through all of this thing we call a life. And maybe there is no answer.


I am a corpse. On the ledge of a small blue planet. In the suburbs of the Milky Way. During the first days of the third Millennium. I have always talked. I wake up talking. I talk in my sleep. I interrupt people when they’re talking. I talk during movies. I talk with my mouth full of food. I do not talk while I am being intimate with a woman. Not unless I’m asked to. I can’t stop talking. I’m looking at God straight in the eyes. Now. God has a receding chin. No wonder he’s always wearing a beard. And he has very little personality. God is a chartered accountant. With a second set of books. God is a mortician. Drumming up business. A compost preparing us for decomposition. Or God is a publisher. With a musty smelling manuscript growing in his lap. I am looking my creator straight in the eyes and I have a story. It begins in a bottle.

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