This is the first bit of something I started writing recently. I envision developing this into a novel type piece. Your criticism (constructive) is greatly welcome. ----------------- The blood was dried into the grout of the tile beneath Arthur Wontard's body. Arthur had stopped bleeding not because his wound had been plugged, but because he had simply run out of the stuff. Blood had circulated through the body for twenty-two years, waiting. Round and round, through the heart, down to the toes, through the heart, into the brain; searching. In this way, a part of Arthur was happy. His blood had found the exit for which it had been looking, as had the man himself. A slice through Arthur's jugular had given most of his blood a chance to bathe in the open air and windowless solitude of his former apartment. Without a carrier the blood was in limbo. Without this blood the body could not breathe. And without this body the man was gone. The soul formerly known as Arthur Wontard had no choice but to rest; to linger in limbo. To wait for the agents of decomposition to bring it back to life again. For now the entity moved through limbo, reacting to the newfound freedom the way a bird's detached feather might react to a breeze: It succumbed. Without life the soul was unaware of the wind's force. And yet, like the feather, it reacted quickly to nature's demands. Speeding quickly with a downdraft, hovering defiantly, swaying to the left, gyrating erratically, trying its' weight on each new plane, yet falling all the while. Like the bird's lost feather, Arthur was humankind's lost soul, existing simultaneously at both the beginning and the end. \t The living Arthur often thought about death. When the idea entered his mind he seldom fought it; he enjoyed letting the mystery take hold of his mind. One thing he was quite sure of was that the place and time of his death would be of little importance. Arthur trusted that the forces of nature would lead the elements of his body to their proper place.