we were vultures pecking at the remains of a dead man’s home. with each day we emptied his cavernous body, buzzing with frenzied excitement over the things, the things we carried away, trophies of a conquest without a name. i picked up a musty leather-bound novel covered in egg-shell blue, laced with dust; the sun also rises, my favourite book. how tragic, my mind thought, how exciting, my fingers felt. but we were vultures, and this dead man had left us all of these things when he parted with the world as if to say meaningless, meaningless, meaningless. so i tore my fingers away, surveyed the steady pickings of the valueless things that remained, and left.