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The world is crowded with the dead - the souls of the millions, billions before us. A thick grey soup surrounds us, a fog of souls stuck forever just beyond our sight, our understanding. Never leaving. Never moving on. Watching us. Christians, Buddhists, Muslims and Atheists drift alongside dead Romans, housewives, popes, sinners. They watch, envious of our life, our vitality. We move through them, sit on them, sleep alongside them, ride the elevator with them. They are a constant presence. We are their soap opera, a play played out over generations; they cry silently with us, laugh with us, console us. They mock our stupidity as we waste our time toiling, fighting and fucking. Thousands, millions huddle around the brightest, the artists, the musicians that can fill their sadness, their long boredom, with moments of light, beauty and warmth. They are desperate to pass on the wisdom of the aeons, to steer us to a brighter future, a better world, but cannot. All attempts at communication fail - no mediums, no magician, no tricks or charlatan can puncture the barrier between the living and the dead - so they just watch - frustrated as we repeat their mistakes again and again. Generation after generation.

Story by:

Clive Martyn

submitted at 2:05pm

29 June 2011

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