So here I am.
Sitting at the very edge of the universe, at the very rim of the crater we call home. The trees are howling outside and a drizzle, as light as dew, sketches patterns against the light of a street lamp.
Scattered about me are pencils, pens, brushes, yarns, candles, paper cuttings, bottles of linseed oil, acrylic paint, binder gum and turpentine, a hair clip, a calculator, a sharpener, a recipe for ribbon cake, a box of broken rosin, an outdated address book, seashells, rocks, paper clips, stamps, charcoal, a can full of coins and pebbles, a paperback edition of To The Lighthouse, a folder, a pouch, a purse, an expired lip balm, a dictionary, a Happy Meal toy and an ID issued by the National Institute of Mental Health. And if I die, right here, right now, this is all I leave behind.
They say that your surroundings are a reflection of your self, an extension of your body, that where you are is who you are. Tonight, everything around me is covered in a thin film of dust- micro particles of human residue, probably, mostly my own, anyway. The rest, I assume, is cat fur.
If I happen to die tonight, and the detectives arrive by midday tomorrow, with their baggy trench coats, shabby boots, hats, pipes and magnifying glasses, this is what they will find. Unimpressive- there's nothing on can furtively slip into one's trench coat pocket.
