If not for flesh's pretty paint, we're just a bunch of skeletons, working hard to deny the fact of bones. Teeth remind me that we die. That's why I never smile, except when looking at a picture of a ghost, captured by a camera lens, in a book about the paranormal. When someone takes a picture of a spirit, it gives me hope. I admire the ones who refuse to go away. Lovers scorned and criminals burned. I love the dead little girl who plays in her yard, a spectral game of hide and seek. It's the fact they don't know they're dead that appeals to me most. Like a man once said to me, Do you ever feel like you're a ghost? Sure, I answered, every day. He laughed at that and disappeared. All I could think was he beat me to it.
Response: I like the play of the ideas on humanity's values in the beginning; "flesh's pretty paint""deny the fact of bones" as if we all want to appear as something that we know we are not, but that no one wants to admit. I guess i don't really understand the ending, I can't tell in his tone whether he actually wants to be dead or just admires their nativity.
