Feel the Illinois

While I lived, I was a juggler. I could juggle almost anything - any shape, any size. Once you learn to juggle, you see every object as an obstacle, find yourself picking up mugs, sticks, silverware, calculating how to toss them best, what grip to begin with, how to work them into your act. I saw life as just another ball to juggle. Never thought about it much, just learned to make a living, and stay in the game as long as possible.

Now I'm dead. I don't remember anything past my 26th birthday, so I assume something killed me around there. I can't feel any anger or regret now, just a dull phantom pain where my emotions once were. Maybe the worms ate them, along with my eyes, ears, and nose.

I've been thinking about writing over the past few months. I'll probably write a book some time, and I've been tumbling ideas around in my head, trying to find something that leaps from my mind to the keyboard.

I might start with semi-trashy fiction, maybe use that intro up there as a concept and expand. A book featuring a zombie as the main character might be fun, though it's been done before.

Comments?

Suggestions?

Curses?