I. The author is dead. Look at that corpse lying there, the small pool of blood glinting scarlet beneath lips already shaded pale blue. Where are the wounds? You must see. The garments are a bit disheveled, but there are no signs of violence, are there? Maybe you can't see them. Maybe you don't want to see the marks. Maybe there's a reason. The hair looks as alive as it ever was. Flowing, shining, glowing. It parts about the neck, the nape of that still flesh, unmoving. Will you? Will you feel for the pulse? For the sake of convention, decorum, appearances, will you? Cold, clammy, a mushy cool. What does the coroner feel? No pulse. You gaze at the hand, frozen in that pose, reaching out. For what? There was a reason. That finger pointing to . . . that ink stained finger pointing to nothing. The ink has run into the lines up close, the prints on the fingerpads, on the flesh.

II.