I love the open space of the Funeral Chapel parking lot at night. Earlier today, a human's cicada shell lay inside those walls, smiling, not telling the secret of where the rest of him went, after moulting.
As I buzz around this empty space, I feel sure that I'm a reincarnated soul, or a vampire - hundreds of years older than I look. Or an ant who has underestimated the weight and size of this dead beetle he is hauling around.
But I don't mind the aloneness, or the fact that this is not my season. The dead spot on my right big toe is the only remaining numbness from last year's debacle - the unfulfilled portion of the progress bar on my screen. The healing is not complete, but it is real.
Now it's gotten late. Time to flip my collar up and turn back to the house. Tonight is not the night I leave my skin behind and finally learn the secret.
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