What Wonderful Thing Didn't Start Out Scary?

I'm Watching Her Talk. Watching Her Jaw Move And Collecting Her Words One By One As They Spill From Her Lips. I Don't Deserve Them. Her Warm Memories. I'd Like To Paint Them Over The Bare Plaster Walls Of My Soul, But Everything I Paint Seems To Peel.

You Know Things Are Moving. You're Changing, You Fellow Dead Are Changing, The World Is Ready For Something Miraculous. What Are We Waiting For?

And Yet ... But What If ... I Want To Do Something Impossible. Something Astounding And Unheard Of. I Want To Scrub The Moss Off The Space Shuttle And Fly Julie To The Moon And Colonise It, Or Float A Capsized Cruise Ship To Some Distant Island Where No One Will Protest Us, Or Just Harness The Magic That Brings Me Into The Brains Of The Living And Use It To Bring Julie Into Mine, Because It's Warm In Here, It's Quiet And Lovely, And In Here We Aren't An Absurd Juxtaposition, We Are Perfect.

Is This Muteness A Real Physical Handicap? One Of The Many Symptoms Of Being Dead?or Do We Just Have Nothing Left To Say?

The Shadows Of The Room Pool In The Lines Of Our Faces, Draining Our Eyes Of Hue. "there's Nothing Left Worth Saying.