It wasn't until I was dead that I learned that life keeps living. Buried in my bedsheets, pulled high over my head, but I wasn't warm, I wasn't cold. I was dead. In the dark my eyes were open and closed. My breath was trapped underneath with me, barely leaving my mouth, warm, I inhaled it back in. I couldn't turn myself over, my arms were pins and needles, useless meat laying next to me in silence.
It was quiet, there were no clicking noises, of electronics or pipes interred arround me, no rushing cars on the gray road, no footsteps up above of people walking over me.
Stillness. Unending stillness extended out around me, it was piled on top of me, a heavy weight that I couldn't reach or move away, and I was tired, not willing to scrape my nails bleeding into it, not willing to gouge it out and have it come crashing down on me.
But the alarm clock exploaded, and it was time for the dead to begin living.
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