“What’s that supposed to be?”

“What do you mean?”

“That. That thing in your hands.”

“Oh, well… This is my life, I guess.”

“That’s your life?”

“Well, it’s a day.”

“Why are you holding a day? Isn’t in heavy?”

“Mine are pretty light… Why, is yours heavy?”

“Well of course it’s heavy. My life ended, so now instead of building it up, I just gotta carry it around. The days haven’t stopped piling on yet, though. Funny, you’d think after a while they’d stop.”

“You died?”

“No, my life ended.”

“Isn’t that death?”

“No. But with those little bitty days of yours you wouldn’t get it.”

“What are you trying to say? There’s nothing wrong with my days.”

“They’re empty. In my days there is pain and suffering, highs and lows, euphoria and beauty and death, and flight-“

“Flight?”

“Yes, I fly.”

“People can’t fly.”

“And that’s the difference between us.”