All Wet

[rejectomorph]

This Week in Death. I see page after page of dead people; the famous, the infamous, the non-famous who have through misfortune been caught in the glare of fame at the last moment. (Oh, how perverse to escape fame for a lifetime only to have your late mug slapped onto a website because of something newsworthy in the way you became a cadaver!) It's like a Whitman Sampler of mortality, with portraits and thumbnail biographies. The archives go back through 2002. I even saw a couple of dead horses, and a lobster. There ought to be a picture of Privacy there, it having been murdered by the Internet. And still, I look.


The rain strengthened last night, giving me something to listen to. This morning the clouds have settled onto the land, swirling about the pines and shrouding the distance. The rain has stopped for the moment, and the pavements are still and glassy. They have nothing to reflect but the sodden trees.