I think Les’s poem killed me.

At least that’s what it looked like. Me in corporeal form, all floaty, wandering down a row of endless corridors with only a few scattered mice to scare.

Pretty much seemed like a death state to me.

“You hated my poem,” Les explained when I complained. “You couldn’t even say it had good rhythym or a nice line or two…”

“Well, it didn’t.”

“Hmpph!”

That was the last I heard of Les for a while. Though I did find, in my roaming, a cute picture of a young boy and his mother. Family I guessed, though my memories of yet another life refuses to infiltrate my poor senses.

Instead I turned my thoughts to Les. What was he? Certainly more than a figment of my imagination. Though I could wish for nothing more than this all to be one crazy assed dream about to come to an end. Unfortunately no one ever woke me up, so I guess it wasn’t.

Les, though, was a lot more, or a lot less, than he seemed. His random acts of mischeif always did some good…