"What I like is the complete absence of time." he says.
"Or the way time collapses in on itself." he says.
"Or all time happens at the same time?" he says.
"Look out the window. See..?" he says.
"A Roman Legion being chased by a dinosaur!" he says.
"...in a hover car!" he says.
"Wonders will never cease!" he says.
"And that dinosaur...can't even drive!" he says.
"It all gets a bit Thornton Wilder-ish!" he says.
"But I shouldn't be saying this to you!" he says.
"Not while you're not dead yet!" he says.
"Or say you escape by the skin of your teeth!" he says.
"And don't die at all!" he says.
"I'm dying..?" I say.
"You could call it that." he says.
"And what are you...a ghost?" I say.
"Naw mate...didn't get my ghosting licence!" he says.
"Failed it every time!" he says.
"I'm here to help you cross!" he says.
"Aww mate...don't you go and live on me!" he says.
"I'll catch hell for this!" he says.
"Sorry..!" I say.
"Sorry! Sorry you says!" he says.
And fades.
And life fades back in again.
"Well..." I say to myself "...it's back to the old living lark!"
An inept ghost who failed his ghosting and is now about to fail his psychopomp exam and has read Thornton Wilder's great play THE SKIN OF OUR TEETH. I used to look after a gent who was very partial to the drink and he used to ramble on like this interspersed with flashes of his reading. Having once or twice almost snuffed it I thought I had the right to give it a go of what happens when one dies.