How’s your life? Mine ended—long ago. Or recently… I’m not sure. You’ll ask, why? My answer may sound a little odd: I’m an undead skeleton. Yes, some bald necromancer raised me, and ever since, I’ve been wandering alongside the rest of the skeletal horde in his army.

  What can I tell you about my daily routine? First—no sleep. Yep, that’s how it is. Maybe it’s a memory from my past life—I used to love sleeping—so now, since I literally never close my eyes, it’s a bit unsettling. Ha-ha, must be another memory, because I don’t have nerves anymore. Just bones. Anyway, as long as we’re given tasks or some kind of action, things are tolerable—but the moment we’re left to guard something or stand in formation for forty to sixty hours straight? That’s when it gets truly dull. How the others cope, I have no idea. You can’t even turn your head, let alone strike up a conversation. Pure, unrelenting boredom.

  Second—my only possessions are my bones. So how do I move? Magic. A bizarre thing—utterly incomprehensible, yet strangely beautiful, and occasionally lethal. Though not to me, of course. Hmm… maybe I died from magic—or something like it. Not great associations.

  Since all I have are bones, all those little “living perks” have vanished without a trace: eating, scratching, blinking, sneezing, breathing, feeling cold… It’s kind of a shame. I imagine even a simple hiccup would help pass the time during those endless shifts. Though if you saw an undead skeleton hiccupping… well, that would raise a few questions, wouldn’t it? Ever met an undead creature? Ha—I doubt the hiccups would be the first thing you’d notice if you stumbled upon a reanimated skeleton in a dark alley, gripping a knife and glowing red eyes burning in its skull.

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  And third—I feel what I can only call Overwhelming Hatred toward all living things. It’s maddening. Horrifying. A complete, visceral revulsion toward those wretched, breathing creatures. Why?! How?! How can they still live—while I cannot?! Just sensing a bird flutter overhead or insects rustle beneath dry leaves fills me with the urge to tear them apart, gut them, annihilate them—steal their lives, their souls, their warmth, their movement. Yes. If I am dead, no one should be alive. AHahAHaaa!!! _'! : ahhhhhahAh) (!; :/hahaaa.....

  Phew. It hits me like that sometimes—though otherwise, days are calm. Quiet. Boring.

  That’s enough thoughts for today. I’ll write again next time.

  Sleep well, Living.