Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer

by Cyrus Mistry

There was no sound more revolting or hateful to the ears than that voice which plucked me rudely from my garden of dreams.

One side of my head was throbbing, raw; felt a bit of a corpse myself. Then my eyes lit on the wall clock: twenty past six already!

Though death is its precise reason for existence, in this garden, life—overwhelmingly—is the victor.

So apt that you can always find calm in the worst pf chaos.