Car crash. The body lay beside it, motionless. Dead. "Rest in peace". Peace is always associated with death, yet the final action in this life that transcended the partition that separated life and death was anything but. Car crash. A bad one. There was no chance for survival, the report said. It was a rainy night, visibility was at a minimal at a maximum. Approximately below minimum to be precise. No cars were to be seen, it was late and dark. Headlights could be viewed from a mile away, even the dimmest. While most drivers would've been slowing down, taking it easy, allowing their eyes the time to focus on the road and see through the precipitation, this driver wasn't. Took the corner at great speed. The tyres were lacking in grip and, as this corner was taken so ferociously, their friendship with gravity was cut short, ripping the vehicle through the barrier that parted the road from the field and onto the muddy grass land. Thrown from the car, the body was found laying there, under the rain, "Scientist" by Coldplay still playing from the CD player. On repeat. It would've been the last thing he'd heard. He was found smiling.
    The story all gets a little complicated when we discover that the body that was found there was in fact that of my own. But don't worry, I'm fine. Actually, better in fact. Bodies weigh you down. You'll go out tomorrow in the autumn weather and you'll be cold. Do you know how hard it is to get cold when you don't have a body? Very! In fact, it's impossible! And how many legs might I need amputated (granted, that even humans can only have two amputated at most) in future? None! Because I am nought but a psyche. A soul. A non-phsyical entity. Non-physical body. And that makes things a lot easier. Want to know what happens when you die? There is no set heaven, there is no set hell. There is no set judgement day. There is whatever you want. Each night, as you sleep, You enter one reality and go into another, which we have come to know as dreams. In dreams, everything seems real. So it is. It's just that in your day time, mundane reality, you can not change your past. You can not forget your past. In your dream reality, your past changes each night. And in lucid dreams, you can control your present.
    To the innocent, death is a lucid dream. Beautiful and full of whatever you want. You want to go out with a Hollywood actress? Done. You want to dump her a week later for a pop singer but don't want to hurt her feelings? Easy. She understand. Pop singer wants you. If you think you need to work for these things, you grant yourself a job!
    To the evil, death is just a dream. Confusion. Each day is something entirely different and they are faced with a variety of obscure tasks. They have no past and they have no future. The present is even sketchy. One minute they're in a street talking to a friend, the next they're down a coal mine, naked talking to Gordon Brown about cheap pillows, sweating from the enduring labour. There is no consistency and it appears that consistency is the key to happiness: job, marriage, annual holidays etc etc.
    Yet, here I am. Watching the scene of my crash. I could be out there, swimming with dolphins in a pool suspended from the sky by chinooks driven by 50s musical directors. I could be eating ice cream in Siberia with the founder of the Writers Guild, discussing the respiratory system of Velociraptors, arguably the key element to their fearsome reputation, thanks to it allowing for a constant cycle of oxygen to their muscles, keeping them active for longer, a great stamina. I'm here. Looking at the smile on my own face. Watching these idiots pansy-foot around me. Hiding me from the public. Idiots. I'm hundreds of yards from the road. From there it's hard to tell if anyone's alive or dead. Save the black screen for another day boys, you'll never know when you might need it.
    "A terrible accident." some say. "Careless driving" say others. They don't know the truth. They weren't there. None of them truely know what the crash entailed other than, obviously, my death. Instantaneous, they can assume. Broken neck, amongst many other broken bones. Brain damage. Survival wouldn't have been pretty. In fact, it seems like death might have been the best for me, some of them say.
    And they were right. Had they actually surveyed the whole scene a little closer, there would've been one piece of key evidence that suggested death was the best medicine in this incident, for it definitely was a medicine of sorts, only it was one that I took too much of, they'd have discovered something. An overdose. A metaphorical overdose with the same outcome as a physical one. My post-life body standing watching as strangers clean up the environment in which I'd ceased to physically exist. Sentience removed. It's obvious. It's so so obvious. As lay, only meters from my body, was a mobile phone. A mobile phone that, in my physical days, belonged to me. In that phone were messages, a multitude of messages spanning a great spectrum of topics that had been both sent and received from as diverse a span of people. Some messages hadn't even made it past the composition stage, laying doggedly in the phone, the unloved children of some very grim parents. "You were an accident!" these parents screamed, but it didn't matter anyway, as they weren't real. I made them up just to optimise the patheticism of these messages that were never sent to war. But still, the phone went unnoticed, and in that phone, in a little electronic folder known as the "Outbox" was a message that simply read "I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry."