(Apologies for such a lame attemp to write.)
I died today.
I lay motionless as catatonic in a fluffy chair that I rest. My arms oblivious on the arm chair. My hands dangle and my fingers stiff as if tugging with gravity. My head on my right shoulder, vacuous like a pumpkin, dead as a ten-pin ball. My hair covers my eyes, all left is a gaping mouth, lips lined with dryness and wafts poison. All that is animate and breathes life is a fly buzzing out from my esophagus. I am wearing my best shirt. Checkered of brown, white and beige, 6 brownish-pearly buttons, white glowing undershirt. And just a piece of blue jeans not very unique. My feet like of a marionette untied, toes all point to the right.
"Who killed me? Why did I die?" I examine myself sullenly from mid-air, my past. The cold corpse, my past.
I look at the horizon where the chair and my body are seated, earth carpet of wild flowers and breeze palpable with dapples of florets of dandelions. The stretch is wider than my vision, whites, greens, and pastels. I descended down to my own corpse, attempts of contact fail. Yes, I am a wraith, not even an odor neither dew.