I am a corpse. On the ledge of a small blue planet. In the suburbs of the Milky Way. During the first days of the third Millennium. I have always talked. I wake up talking. I talk in my sleep. I interrupt people when they’re talking. I talk during movies. I talk with my mouth full of food. I do not talk while I am being intimate with a woman. Not unless I’m asked to. I can’t stop talking. I’m looking at God straight in the eyes. Now. God has a receding chin. No wonder he’s always wearing a beard. And he has very little personality. God is a chartered accountant. With a second set of books. God is a mortician. Drumming up business. A compost preparing us for decomposition. Or God is a publisher. With a musty smelling manuscript growing in his lap. I am looking my creator straight in the eyes and I have a story. It begins in a bottle.