Imagine a place where the dead rest on shelves like books.

I mean, most people want to escape. Get out of their heads. Out of their lives. Stories are the easiest way to do that.

Isn't it strange? It's like after they die, you're only allowed to remember the good. But no one's all good.

What if I mess up?"

"Oh, you will. You'll mess up, you'll make mistakes, you'll break things. Some you'll be able to piece together, and others you'll lose. That's all a given. But there's only one thing you have to do for me."

"What's that?"

"Stay alive long enough to mess up again.

She cracked a smile. "So what's your poison?"
He sighed dramatically, and let the truth tumble off his tongue. "Life."
"Ah," she said ruefully. "That'll kill you.

You wanted to feel alive, right? It doesn't matter if you're monster or human. Living hurts.