Death Everyday Death sits a top his moist brain. It's black letters fuse with the gray matter, seeping into the dark corners of his thoughts, taking over his life: work, friends, conversations. I know it's all he thinks about. He's told me so. I don't know what to do. I wish I could bring a noose over to his house. I know he'd stick his head into it willingly. Then I'd drag him like a dog on a leash to a psychiatrist's office where they'd fix him. "Please drag your reluctant patient into bay number three, we'll have him fixed and ready to go by noon." I know it's not that simple. They can't just power-wash the black rot of death from his brain and then return him as good as new. There's the whole free will thing, but man you've gotta do something about this death stuff, it's killing me.