sad-ending

There is a sad end I used to liveeven before I knewthis is how I was meant to begin.

The dead still come to me every now and then. But the lulls between are getting smaller. They are finding me somehow. I tell them why they can__ move on. I listen to their lives and talk to them if they need it. I still draw their portraits in my sketchbook, with their stories. I put Mary Summer in there too. Someone should remember.