By Sal Difalco
Faith gets rewarded is the rumor, but spurn the sarcophagi; they will not cheer you nor will your life be restarted once all the bandages and paraffin come away. Remember where you are when you finally awaken. Open your eyes now, wider—at last you have awakened and the uncanny silence here should not be mistaken for neurological neutrality or base inebriation. Yet the doubter in you gets redoubled as you skulk through the uncharted chambers of the narrative crypt, clutching your hat and whip and usurping the dusty reticence of the more or less departed.
Sal Difalco is a Toronto-based writer. Recent appearances in Gone Lawn and Cafe Irreal.