(Twistedude--God, it's a hassle to change names!)
At 5 Monday morning, I was siting at my computer listening to "Daydream Believer" over and over (it;'s a site on Google, and the backgroUnd music is improved--nice banjo work--and it keeps playing until you tell it to stop), wondering why I had suddenly started hating my second story, and was it really bad.
And suddenly I started sobbing, about the brutal murder of this piece of celluloid, this wonderful young man who wasn't afraid of anything, even being afraid, was so honest, so loving, how could anyone thnink there were just oceans and oceans of people like that that he could afford to blow one away?
But isn't it odd how the dead tend to stay dead?