One day it was flurried upon a gray dead winter sky just existing at a slow pace above. Bank roots scurried along filth ridden slush abiding near street curbs. So few cars pondered silently by still streetlights and through town. This ghost town. Sinners court was exceptionally yet oddly beautiful in the snow. Wondering and slumbering in the dead middle of the marble orchard known as sinners court , was Mr. Northcutt. Alistair Northcutt was a honest and brutal manwhen he was alive. A genius with a gun in Vietnam at his side when he uttered his dying last words. Even though he may stumble in death , I can see him like any other. A shade paler than the average Irishman but no beaches for sunbathing for the dead was a part of the terrain of this cemetery exactly.  

But this isn’t about Mr. Northcutt. It’s solely about what he represents. The twilight symphony of ill confused and rejected apparitions. The dead left behind.To be clearer before we go any further let me say this , he’s the first that has been seen in broad day or night by any and everyone as if still very much alive.Though , now others worldwide who’ve died in the last year have as well lingered in this world for all to see. Some humorously theoretically suggest that heaven and hell may have run out of room. Heaven has cast upon these dark skies of snow and rain on us for the last 132 days and nights around the globe. Hell has drowned trees, plants, farms and some major cities. Heaven and hell out of business and now earth plays the welcome to our humble abode song for ossified relatives , friends , even enemies. Still the dead linger , while none threaten our lifestyle, however yet. The intensity in the searing cold winds carry an anxious tone as the sand hour glass in the end of days slowly slither by. Soon the world will shed its secrets , its guilty pleasures. For now , we are key.The key to the tick tock flutter of time crawling closer , still closer to , something.

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