A short story in three parts—verbally contemplating on the death of an insignificant person—riddled with self loathing of both the living, and the dead. For death is a bitter tasting joke with no set-up; only a shocking punchline leaving those who remain with the unbearable weight of grief and longing.
A man lies asleep on a bed. A gust of wind. A rumbling. He walks around, taking photographs. Messages from both his dreams, and mine, where we are haunted by people in student uniform.
On a quiet night in the library, a young librarian prepares to head home alone, until something lurking in the shadows begins to creep closer.
