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The Coffin Maker

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I hate to admit it, but I have a Facebook. Social media doesn't make sense to me. I understand adding friends. Blah, blah, blah. But apart from that, I don't know what else to do. I don't post often and when I do, I feel stupid about it. As far as I'm concerned, no one cares what I have to say. But that's not what this is about. What matters is that when I do go on Facebook, I look at the articles that show up on my feed. I know how cliche that sounds. Oh, I only go on the internet for the articles. That's what my dad used to tell my mom when she found a Playboy. But I assure you, I use Pornhub for the porn. Do they even have articles on there? Sorry, I digress.

One of the articles I found on there had the headline "Retired Writer Makes Coffins." The comment that followed the shared link said "this guy should get a better hobby" with a disapproving emoji. Having grown up on the A Nightmare on Elm Street series, my interests tended to lean in a weird direction. Horror and weird things were something of a passion of mine. The page that shared the article was called Strange World. Which I think proves what I just said. So I clicked the link to the website and read on.

There wasn’t very much information. That was a huge problem with the pages I liked on Facebook. The headlines were awesome, but the actual content was lacking something fierce. All that it really said on the site was that this writer lived in seclusion in Texas and made coffins. It had a few pictures taken by a fan that had visited his property. Being a person who hates to think about the end, coffins freak me out. Some way, somehow the coffins were actually kind of beautiful. Something about the ones he made, made them look a like art. Although I didn’t really know anything about art. And I still don’t.

After reading the brief article and skimming the pictures multiple times, I Googled the guy. His name was Daniel G. Lang. From what I could find on Wikipedia - the purveyor of ultimate truths - he was a fairly popular writer during the nineties. I hadn't even learned to read when he was first published, so it made sense that I had never heard of him. Besides, when I did start reading I was all about Goosebumps and Captain Underpants. Of course there was that whole Y2K thing, so I’m sure his PR person couldn’t do much to keep him in the limelight anyway.

There was a section on his influences and it said that two of the authors he looked up to were Kurt Vonnegut and Haruki Murakami.

“I started reading Vonnegut in high school. And I thank God that I learned Japanese in college. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t have found Murakami. The surrealism in Murakami’s work is just fascinating. And there’s just something… cool about the characters he writes. It’s like the way Quentin Tarantino writes, you know? I can’t pinpoint what it is, per se, that makes it cool. It just is cool. And then Vonnegut, I could go on forever about Vonnegut. I just know if I ever have kids some day I’ll make sure they read his work. He’s been a large influence on the way I think and write, even if I’ve never had the honor to meet him.” - Daniel G. Lang, 1996

I’ve never been much of a reader myself. My mother made sure to teach me to read as soon as possible. I think I started reading before I started school… I’ll have to ask her. Anyway, I had definitely heard of Kurt Vonnegut. That Japanese guy though, I hadn’t.

My parents were always on me about school. School of course, meant books, and reading, and homework. Lucky for me I was good at bullshitting and could worm my way around actually reading in English clash. One time I even got a 98 on an essay over Lord of the Flies, and the teacher read a bit of it to the class. That’s how good I was at avoiding books. It’s not that I hated reading, there was just nothing I really wanted to read. I know there are all kinds of books out there, but I’m lazy. I watch my anime dubbed and I’ll wait until all of Game of Thrones has been converted to a visual format before I know who gets the iron throne. My vote is on Khaleesi.

All of that being said, I’m a visual person and my parents essentially let the television raise me. We were upper lower class, if that makes sense. Both of them had to work and the only other presence in the home was my sister. I’m not saying my baby sister wasn’t interesting, but kids are really annoying. So it was my sister, the TV, and I. Movies are my life and that’s why I decided to go into film. It was a few months until starting the film program at Tribeca in Chicago, and I had a brilliant idea: what better way to get a leg up and show everyone what I can do than a documentary about a nut job who makes coffins?

I looked up the publishing company that put out all of Lang’s books. There was a number for the office and when I called, a pleasant sounding older lady picked up.

“Segue Publishing, this is Gladys how may I direct your call?”

“Uh, hi. I’m working on a documentary and I was hoping to get in contact with Daniel G. Lang?”

“Do you have his extension? If so I can forward you.”

“No, mam. I don’t. If I did I could probably forward myself. Ha, ha.” Side note: Gladys didn’t find that funny. “I was hoping you could give me a number or address so I could interview him.”

“One minute, please.”

After a pause during which I’m sure she was shuffling papers and eating a butterscotch, Gladys came back.

“I’m sorry there’s no one here by the name of Daniel Lang.”

“Did you try Daniel G. Lang?”

“Sir, I’m sorry but I think you have the wrong number.”

“I definitely do, that’s why I’m looking for the right one… Sorry. He’s an author that put out a few books with your company during the nineties. Does that help by any chance?”

“Oh, you need Mr. Fawler. One minute please.”

She transferred me and Mr. Fawler actually picked up pretty quickly. If anything, Segue Publishing certainly has good customer service. Mr. Fawler unfortunately said that he wasn’t allowed to give out Lang’s information. He also said that Mr. Lang didn’t do interviews. When I asked him again nicely he gave me the same answer.

“What if I said ‘pretty please with a hundred dollar bill on top?’”

“Mr. Samuels I already said that I can’t give that information out. And may I say, you’re extremely unprofessional.”

“That might be why my mother doesn’t speak to me… Look Mr. Fawler, I’m sorry if I come off as childish. Honestly, I just get this way when I’m enthusiastic about something. I’m a huge fan of Mr. Lang’s work and would like to sit down with him. If I could just get an email address for him, that would be great.”

With a sigh he conceded. “Fine. I can give you that. But I have to tell you, Mr. Lang isn’t one for technology and his memory is very poor. When and if he remembers to check his email, the likelihood that he’ll respond is pretty slim.”

“That’s fine. I’m not looking to bother him, so if he won’t do it I can live with that.”


Mr. Lang, my name is Joshua Samuels. I'm a filmmaker and I'm working on a documentary on novelists. I was hoping you might be able to sit down with me on or off camera for a few minutes. Your involvement in the project would be greatly appreciated and quite an honor. Please get back to me at your convenience. Thank you.

I figured the email sounded professional enough. And since that nice Mr. Fawler told me Lang would probably take forever and a day to get back to me I had to find something to occupy my time.

I Googled Daniel G. Lang again and marveled at the fact that a website could be used as a verb. Google is certainly playing one hell of a game of Monopoly. Anyway, in the event that this guy did get back to me and agree to meet me, it would probably help if I knew a little bit more about him.

I looked up his bibliography. His last book In the End was published in 2000. The title was oddly fitting, considering his career and newfound hobby. Before that he published a novel called Nirvana in 1999. In 1997 he published The Backstreets. There were two other novels he published in the nineties, no more than three years apart. For having such a short career, he was definitely prolific. Under the section on his career it stated that he was a huge fan of music and used lyrics, songs, and bands as titles and lines in his stories.

“While they don’t often actually have any bearing on the content, I like titling my novels in reference to music. Although In the End was a pretty appropriate title for that novel.” Daniel G. Lang, 2001

I found a summary on In the End:

"In the End, tentatively titled after the song by band Linkin Park, is a startlingly accurate portrayal of a modern adolescent love affair and the aftermath. Sally and Mick meet senior year in high school, enduring that time of angst and hormones together. Of course once college time comes around the two are forced to split. Following the two through further relationships, seeing the decisions they made as kids play out into adulthood, the novel is a brilliant representation of the youth of today. Lang’s character work is as striking as ever in this work of love lost and lives lived."

Personally I hate summaries like that, but it did it’s job. I was definitely interested. Teen angst is something of a guilty pleasure of mine when it comes to stories.

When I started digging around for summaries of his other books I found something kind of nuts. In the little bar on Google that shows products and prices I saw one of Lang’s books going for almost $200. The title of the book was The Cycle. It wasn’t as fun as his other titles were. I couldn’t think of any songs or pop culture references that would fit the title. I also couldn’t think of what it might be about. When I went back to Wikipedia to look at his bibliography The Cycle was there, but there wasn’t a page about it. Spending more time than I’d care to admit, I tried finding more information on it. All that I could find was that the sales weren’t great and that there were a very limited quantity still out there. Even the posters on Ebay didn’t have much to say about it.

Supply and demand basically works off the premise that how many people are desperate for something dictates how much that thing will cost. If only a few people really want something, then that thing is going to cost an ungodly amount. So those few people get screwed. I definitely didn’t have $200 to drop on a book. And given the unlikelihood of meeting Daniel G. Lang, I figured keeping my bank account in the green would be a better idea.


There were only two weeks until shipping off to school in Chicago. My best friend since fourth grade was going to school at Notre Dame in South Bend, IN. He was going to let me stay in his dorm for a while until I found something cheap closer to school. It sounded like a pretty sweet deal. The last time I went to visit, when I went for a tour of the Tribeca film school, we played beer pong all night and somehow managed to find a pool table on campus. I still have no idea how we got there. From his campus to my campus was a two hour train ride, and really I should have been out there much sooner. But I was lazy and my family was happy to have me in town as long as possible.

The least I could do was look for jobs in Chicago. I remembered seeing a coffee shop - Cafe Descartes - somewhere near the school so I decided to try there. Halfway through the application process my phone went off. It was a notification from my email.

About my email: I get roughly 20-30 emails a day and they’re all junk. So everytime I get one of those… what are they called? Right, every time I get one of those push notifications I just swipe it away like I’m passing on someone on Tinder. But the email in question was one of those “RE” emails, and I almost never get those.

Mr. Samuels, In regards to being involved in your project: I must say that I will need more information before I can give an answer. However, if you would like to discuss the matter in person I would be more than happy to do so. I’ve attached a document with directions and my address. If you have any further questions or information for me feel free to call me at the following number.

I’m not proud of it, but I did do something of a fist pump when I got that reply. Mr. Fawler had been way off about the guy. Although, he did take forever and a day to get back to me. Still, I had an opportunity to get into that whacked out workshop of his and poke around. As much as my parents hated the idea of me moving away to Chicago, they figured that they’d have to let me grow up eventually. Or something like that. That said, my parents weren’t too happy with the idea of me flying out to Bumblefuck, TX to see some stranger. But they were very supportive of my film pursuits, so they bought me an economy class ticket to Bumblefuck..

I got in touch with Lang at the number he gave me and we set up the meeting for a few days later. I also sent him an email bullshitting what the documentary would be about and he agreed to do an on camera interview. While I was packing I couldn’t help but think that this was a really good setup for a found-footage flick. I made a mental note that when I officially got into the business I would make that movie.


As I said before, my family was upper lower upper class. My parents met at a grocery store when they were teenagers. My dad found some work driving trucks making much better money. My mom moved on to working at a fast food joint that made them wear rollerskates. Oh man she hated those damn things. Later she would get a job filing and junk at a dental office where her mother worked the front desk. Since then she had managed to move up to manager. Unfortunately, since she was so good at it, she ended up managing three practices. But thanks to all of my parents’ hard work, I was able to pursue what I loved. It also meant that I could get a rental car in Texas.

I was able to GPS his place on my phone, but not even halfway there from the airport it crapped out. From the airport it was supposed to be about four hours to his place. I stopped halfway at a gas station for Redbull and to stretch. Lang’s directions were pretty clear and I found his place without any problems.

Seclusion was the perfect word for his living situation. The closest city was where I landed and the nearest small town was an hour away. Between everyone and Lang there was nothing but flat, open land and blue bonnets. There’s a 45% chance I saw at least one cactus. But there’s a 55% chance that I imagined it based on where I was.

I’ve never had an eye for detail, but I can remember the gist of what his house looked like.

His house wasn’t any bigger than a normal house. It might have been smaller, actually. The paint was a darker shade of white, maybe a cream or something. The roof was somewhere between orange and red on the ROYGBIV. Thin grass covered the ground around it and trees made a perimeter behind it a ways off. More than likely he could have kept a few cattle in his backyard. Then again goats might have been better.

I went up the few wooden steps that led to his door and knocked. His porch was pretty nice. There were a few plants, a nice chair, and the whole thing caught a nice amount of shade from the roof at that time of day. What really surprised me was how normal the place looked.

Just as surprising was how normal he looked. For a man his age he didn’t look bad. He was no George Clooney, but he was pretty fit. His arms were large, which made sense given his hobby. He had a trimmed grey beard and short grey hair. Other than that he looked a little thin. You know what? If you put a jacket and a graphic T-shirt on him, and gave him a cane, he’d have looked a lot like Hugh Laurie from House M.D.

“Josh right?” He said when he answered the door.

“Yep, that’s me.”

He smiled. “It’s nice to meet you. Come in, come in.” He stepped aside and held the door open for me. Lang had a nice Southern hospitality vibe to him.

The inside of his place smelled like a coffee shop in a library. It also smelled like a pool hall. It smelled like a very affluent pool hall, I guess. Anyway, there wasn’t much in the way of furnishings. The living room had a nice sofa, an armchair, and most importantly a large television.

If there was a theme in the home it was wood and pop culture. Floors, cabinets, furniture - there was wood everywhere. And on every wall there was at least one framed movie poster. Well at least we have something in common, I thought. Seeing posters for A Clockwork Orange and that one with Uma Thurman for Pulp Fiction almost made me feel at home.

“Would you like some coffee?”

When I finally came back down to Earth from film nerd heaven, I found him in the kitchen. He already had two cups out and was fixing his own. It seemed a dick move to say no.

“Sure. I could use some caffeine after that drive.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. When I decided to finally settle down the country just seemed so idyllic.” He handed me a mug and smiled. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Lang motioned toward the living room and I took a seat on the sofa next to my bag.

“You know,” I said as Lang took his seat in the chair, “ I love all of these posters. I read online that you like to make a lot of references in your work.”

“Right to the interview, I see.” He grinned as he got comfortable.

“Sorry, I’ve never actually interviewed anyone before. Ha, ha.”

“It definitely shows.” He continued to smile. So I assumed he wasn’t being a dick.

“You must have one hell of a video and music collection.”

“I do, actually. I’ll have to show you my office. The walls are pretty much lined. I have a decent record collection as well.” He took a sip of his coffee. “So, will you be setting up a camera? Or how do you want to play this?”

“By ear.” Lang chuckled at that. “Give me a second to set this thing up on the tripod and we can get started.”

“Sure.”

I made the preparations and sat down with my list of questions.

“I guess a good way to start would be…. When did you start writing?”

“Very good. I started when I was very young. I think as soon as I learned my letters I starting writing stories. Ha. When I was a kid I would write stories about monsters. I’ve definitely come a long way since then.”

“So you were something of a horror writer once upon a time?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. But I grew up, started reading a lot of different things, found music and film. So my subjects changed quite a bit. Besides, I don’t find monsters scary anymore.” He smiled wide at that one.

“Well as a fan of horror myself, what does scare you?”

“People… and dying.” He looked downcast for a minute. “And the dark. I’m really afraid of the dark.” He chuckled again. He seemed to be a fairly cheerful man, Lang. If I had been stuck in the middle of nowhere for so long, I’d probably go crazy. But Lang had his shit together, as they say.

“Speaking of people, why Texas? Why live in the middle of nowhere?”

“Well as I said before, I thought the country seemed idyllic. For some reason I had it in my head that the city wasn’t good for me anymore. I narrowed my choices down to Alaska and Texas. I have no idea why anymore, but those were my options. I guess I had a sort of desert/tundra thing going on. Being here definitely helped when I wrote my last novel.”

In the End. I love that title by the way.”

“Yeah it was definitely a roller coaster for me. The way I write is by picking pieces of my life and making them into other things. Do you mind if I smoke?” I told him I didn’t and he lit a cigarette. “Vonnegut said that Pall Malls were a classy way to commit suicide. Bukowski liked camels. I personally have to side with Bukowski on that. Can I see your list of questions?”

“Yeah no problem.”

He looked them over as I drank my coffee. Lang started shaking his head and I almost slapped myself. At the top of the page it said “Ask about the caskets” in bold letters, triple underlined, with stars and a little mushroom beside it. God, I’m a fucking idiot.

Lang just sighed, that smile of his going a little slack.

“You want to know about the coffins?”

“I’m not going to lie. I am pretty interested in that. But there are other questions on that list. Feel free to pick and choose, good sir.”

“No.” He said, slowly standing from his chair. Even though it was over a hundred degrees outside, inside I felt cold. His demeanor seemed to change. “I’ll tell you all about them.” He said in a whisper. “Follow me.”

He walked me through the house to a room that was attached to the back. When he flicked on the light it looked more like a cellar. The workshop was poorly lit and the window that faced the backyard was stained with dust. There was a large table in the middle of the room. It was made of a thick, heavy metal and looked like an operating table. Looking through my camera, I got serious tunnel vision. All I could see was that table… and the coffin lying open on top of it.

“This,” Lang said, his voice booming in the quiet, “This is a very special one” He stepped forward and ran a hand along the side of the coffin. The light shone off of the almost pitch black wood. “This coffin… Is yours Mr. Samuels.”

“What?!”

He laughed loudly, and even hunched over. After a few seconds of this he righted himself and began coughing. My hand was on the doorknob, ready to bolt.


“I’m sorry!” He said through gasps and wheezes. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That was just too funny. You should have seen the look on your face.” Lang slapped his leg and almost had another hysterical laughing fit.

“That was not funny. You sir, are a dick.”

“I’m sorry.That was in poor taste. But it was really funny. In all honesty,” he pulled two stools near the table and sat in one, “this one really is special to me.” He motioned for me to sit. Before I did I sat my camera on a nearby workbench so we could continue the interview.

“So, why is this one special Mr. Lang?”

He answered with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “This one, Joshua, is mine. You see, I have lung cancer. It’s no wonder why.” He exhaled smoke as he said this. “That’s part of the reason I agreed to this interview. I don’t have much longer to live.”

There were a lot of questions that popped into my head at that moment. I didn’t know which one to ask. So I went with the one that brought me there in the first place.

“Why do you make the coffins? When did you start?”

“It’s a very long story. I started doing this a long time ago… Do you know what memetics, is?”

“No, I can’t say that I do.”

“Well let me explain. I’m sure you must know what a meme is? Alright well, memetics basically states that ideas are like genes. They multiply, replicate, change. So a meme acts like a gene. It spreads an idea. Except memes aren’t restricted only to funny internet images. For example, during the fifties and sixties parents were fairly conservative by today's standards. That idea of decency and what not had been around for a long time. But at that time teenagers started to really rebel. I mean, young men have always rebelled in some way or form. It’s the inherent drive to surpass what came before and dominate.

“So that birth of rock and roll and eventually the free love and hippie movement is an example of a memetic mutation. An idea changes and evolves like the genetics of animals. Conversely in this time of growing liberalism there are equally as prominent conservatives. Essentially memetic mutation has the ability to constantly revert. One idea gives birth to an opposing idea, and that opposing idea then brings out the original idea again. I hope all of that makes sense.

“Um… yeah that sort of makes sense. I think.”

“Okay, good. Also, I saw on your list a question about The Cycle?”

“Uh, yeah. I saw that book going for $200 online. What is it about?”

“Well when I was in my early twenties, before I went to college, I did a lot of traveling. I wanted to visit every big city I could. I came from a relatively small town. So I’m sure you can understand my reasons. As much as I was able to see and experience, I was still depressed. To this day I still don’t understand why I was so upset, so melancholy. But I was.

“Writing was the only thing that made me feel better. It was something I had always done, so it made sense that doing it would cheer me up. But on a trip between New York and Atlanta I started to feel worse. I was holed up in a hotel with nothing to do and nobody knew where I was. I sat down to just ramble on paper for a bit, but ended up writing a suicide note.

“I took a shoelace and tied one end around my neck and the other to the rail in the closet. Only, when I tried to hang myself it took too long and I talked myself out of it. I cried for a good half hour after that… I crumpled up the note I was going to leave and threw it in the trash. I can’t fully describe to you how horrible I felt sitting in that room. I felt the need to do something, anything to work myself out of what I was thinking and feeling. So I tried to write again.

“I never did make it to Atlanta. I stayed in that room for about a month, just writing and writing. The product would eventually be The Cycle.

“After I finished it I felt pretty good. I had never written a novel before so I had this kind of euphoria that comes with finishing a project that you’re proud of. Do you know what I mean? Well, I eventually got back home and went to college. While I was there I showed The Cycle to a professor of mine to get his opinion. He liked it and helped me shop it around to a few publishing companies. He even helped me edit it before it was published.”

“When I looked up The Cycle I saw that it didn’t sell very well.”

“That’s correct. It makes sense to me, since the plot was very convoluted. The prose was very dark and not well written, in my opinion. But it did sell. When I graduated I kept writing and partnered with Segue Publishing for the remainder of my career.

“In 1999 I got a letter from the mother of someone who was a fan of mine. She told me that her son had committed suicide. The part that still bothers me, that still haunts me, was that she thanked me. She thanked me for bringing a small bit of joy into her son’s life. She went on to tell me about her son: how he was a good young man and had aspired to write just like me. I was his hero… She told me that in his note he had quoted a novel of mine: The Cycle.

“As if that wasn’t enough, a few months later I got another letter. This one was much the same as that one. And again the mother thanked me. In 2001 I did some research online and found out a number of people had committed suicide, quoting my work in their suicide notes. Every single one quoted lines from The Cycle. That’s when I learned about memetics.

“I made the decision to retire not long after publishing In the End. I couldn’t in good conscience keep writing.”

“Mr. Lang you’re not responsible for that!”

“No Joshua, I am. I’m sure you know that the man who killed John Lennon was inspired to do so by Catcher in the Rye. Now I’m not saying that it’s just the book’s fault. No, in order for memetics to have that kind of affect on someone, that person has to be susceptible. Not everyone who reads a book is changed by a book. The man who shot John Lennon was mentally ill to begin with. That said, the people who killed themselves after reading The Cycle were already in a sensitive state. I know it’s not entirely my fault, but I’m still to blame.”

Lang stood up and looked out the dirty window. He wiped a portion of the glass so it could be seen through.

“I make these coffins as my penance. The labor is a small way for me to pay for what I’ve done. I bury each one here, to remember each life that I’ve taken.”

I stood up, grabbing my camera. When I looked out the window I saw a number of small crosses in the back yard. There were so many of them…

“H-how… How many have you buried?”

“Fifty-three.”


Daniel G. Lang and I didn’t talk much longer after that. He explained to me that since he was dying, he wanted people to know his story. He also gave me a box full of unpublished stories and novels he had written. He told me to burn them. I asked him for a summary of The Cycle and this is what he told me:

“Essentially it’s about a society that uses emotions to control people. By using certain imagery in advertising and things like that, they are able to elicit certain behaviors from the population. The brain is constantly jumping from thought to thought, and drawing connections between things. The hierarchy of the society exploits this. By constantly bombarding people with certain ideas they can get people to think what they want. For example: Josh, do not think of elephants.”

“Okay?”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Elephants.”

“Exactly. See, I just controlled your mind.” He said with a charming smile and a laugh.


I’m now getting ready to graduate from my film program. The past few years here were great and I got to make some connections. I also made some really great friends. One of my best friends here is graduating from the cinematography department. We’ve been going back and forth with ideas on what we should shoot first when we get out.

When I started at Tribeca I was going to try to get a degree in directing, but after the first few months I changed my mind. Truth be told, I probably should never be in charge of anyone. Ha, ha. I decided maybe I could be better at screenwriting. I took a class as an elective and my teacher said I had some talent with dialogue. So that’s what I went with.

Daniel G. Lang died over a year ago. As he said, it was lung cancer. I went to his funeral, one of the few who did. He had a daughter that he never mentioned, who attended with her mother. I told the two that I had talked to the man a while before he died. I told them that he was a good man. His ex-wife smiled and gave a curt nod.

“I hadn’t talked to him in a few years,” his daughter told me, “he seemed so sad that last time.”

“When I saw him he smiled a lot.” I told her. “He also played a mean ass joke on me.” We both laughed at that.

Her name was Marie and we exchanged numbers. I know: trying to pick up girls at a funeral is deplorable. But that really wasn’t my intention. I’m not going to lie though, we are something of an item. Ha,ha.

I went back home to visit my parents on a break a while back and found the box that Lang had given me. I had meant to burn it like he said, but I’m so damn lazy. So I opened it up and looked around in it. There were a lot of folders full of lined paper, typed manuscripts held together with alligator clips. And of course, a copy of the infamous novel The Cycle.

Lang had told me that it didn’t affect everyone the same. I was still wary of reading it, on the off chance that it did end up killing me. But human curiosity got the better of me.

Let’s all breathe a sigh of relief at the fact that I’m still alive.

It didn’t change me. But I did find it pretty beautiful. Specifically the ending of one of many character arcs:

David stood on the roof of his building, looking out over the city. The forest of steel and glass trees glittered in the dying sunlight. David couldn’t help but shed a tear. The poison in his veins was circulating, and soon this gorgeous scene would be gone. He thought about everything that had led him to that point. This whole world was regulated, controlled. Something as simple as street signs, or billboards could change someone’s personality for good. Doubt crept in: What if this wasn’t my decision? He thought to himself. His heart skipped a beat. It skipped multiple beats. He fell to his knees and clutched his chest. Before he collapsed, David smiled. The system is perfect, he thought.

Crazy, right? Well after reading it I remembered my idea for a found footage film. It would be set just like the interview I had with Lang. I pitched it to my cinematographer friend and he said it sounded just weird enough to work. As for the plot, I’m not too sure yet. I think I might keep the interview in the film, though. I’m not sure how it would work into the plot, but I feel like it’s important. I don’t know why. I just feel like maybe it’s important to spread the word.



Written by Jurodinhero
Content is available under CC BY-SA

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