The sweet feeling of independence entangles itself into my soul as time passes and bad memories grow old. The feeling of an evenings summer's breeze caressing your hair as enjoyment becomes irresistible as a puppies innocent stare.
Long ago in the land of the happy and unlonely there came a wandering band of men called strangers bringing sorrow and welcomed in because misery loves company as we all now know.
Her name was Maybelle Brown. She fell in the lake one morning and drown. Every night they hear her retchid sounds. She screams and screams, a demon she has been deemed. She stares back at you with a porcelain face and bright blue eyes, lurks in the mist with no blue skies, cry and find her as you hear her cries. Dead since eighteen eighty five not one soul in the lake has been found alive. Will you join me for a dive?
A man waiting on someone to die drinks another cup, sighs and looks at his watch, the face everyone rememembers for its twitch and drooping eye, always running, always losing a second, an hour, sometimes a day, a year on the wrist of the dead.