The Art of Mourning

The Morbid Anatomy Museum on a Sunday afternoon, hungover from a debaucherous Saturday night out, I wander with a friend through the smallest museum I've ever been inside. It's made up of two rooms--one a spare gallery with photographs and paintings hung on the wall that could look like any other gallery save for the… Continue reading The Art of Mourning

Death is Sleeping in my Bed Next to me

Death's here again, oversleeping in my bed. I can't catch a break; I wanted one Saturday morning alone. "Move over,"I say, "Your feet are so cold." "My feet? How about yours?" Death accuses. "Poor circulation," I answer and roll over on my stomach. "What's your excuse?" Death laughs and continues to hog the covers. "What… Continue reading Death is Sleeping in my Bed Next to me