And if your chest is warm then I envy your soul - to rest in such a safe and cavernous hole - and if your hands aren't ice cold then I envy the woman who gets to press her lips to your palms because mine like to chap and all too often my teeth tease my tongue, but the taste of blood is truly an acquired one. And sometimes I touch my fingers to my throat just to feel if there's a pulse - and most of the time there's not - but that doesn't mean I'm not living.

Because these are the days of the dead.

The dead who walk among us with blood and gasoline coursing through their veins and an inferno in their heart that you could not put out with a dozen of your big, red, fire trucks.