Another day

 

When he woke up, he knew he was already dead, only he did not know it would come out like this: He thought things would be different — a different time, say, a different place, a different person. It surprised him that things appeared the same.

He felt the same.

He felt nothing, which about summed up how he felt all his life— which was nothing.

For a while, he lay there without moving. He figured the exercise might prove him wrong. He shut his eyes and tried to picture the events as they happened, if they happened. There was no point really. Clearly he remembered it all, one fact after the other. And, even if granted he remembered wrong, the evidence was all over him.

He was dead all right, as dead as they come.

He slipped out of the covers, sucked on a cigarette, and showed himself out into the warm morning sun.

 

Titus Toledo makes nothing happen. As of this writing, he digs space weather, code art, semiotics, guerrilla gardening, and crispy begukan— in that order. He comes in peace.
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