Nicholas Maricle

Omens, and other tales

White. White like bone. White like an angel. White like death. Many assume that the “white light” everyone reportedly sees upon death’s doorstep is little more than a comforting lie. The result of synapses misfiring, neurons shutting down. A side-effect of life struggling for air as it falls beneath the infinite ocean of time. The last putterings of an engine as the damage bleeds it out, and whatever metaphors you wanna dress up death in. (For the record, Death prefers suits and similes, but that’s not really important.)