By Xander Balwit
With death all but obsolete, Jamie’s life felt moot and emaciated. The Obituary Desk at The Times, where he worked, had turned into a ghost town he presided over with the bearing of a man who had given everything up for the bitter disappointment of a mine devoid of mineral riches. He would go on long walks around the deserted halls, choosing a different desk each day from which to work on whatever writing projects he could find. It was a shame, for death was what he liked writing about most.
Lives had been easier to frame when they’d been time-bound. A man at 60 is hardly the same man at... (read 2941 more words →)