After the main character in a book dies, there’s always some purple prose shit, a bunch of flowery fluff about a life well-lived, or all the wonderful lessons the person learned before they passed. Me, I dream about riding a unicorn, seated behind Ranger Woodruff while the twins march along on either side of us. We come to a castle, where Church is the prince, and Spencer is his handsome silver-haired husband … Not a very sophisticated death knell, is it?
