OT

Something about this time of year, when I'm watching the river in flood stage and the snow is melting off and it's warm enough to not need a coat but chilly enough to warrant several layers, I get to thinking this is a great time for a body dump. The river is moving at a great clip and in flood. You could toss in a body that was strangled over any bridge, and it would be found miles and miles down stream, if ever at all.

And there is a rational, non-sociopathic part of me that thinks such thoughts are horribly unhealthy and I really ought not read so many mysteries or watch New Detectives so much.

Its opposite wants to start plotting about whose body it is and who finds it and how does it get tracked and write its story. Who is the poor soul who took their basset for a walk in the woods a week after the waters withdraw and finds a corpse in a tree? So many reasons for murder and none of them socially acceptable and very few justifiable. Do I want to feel sorry for the corpse? Do I want to make someone feel sorry? Who am I to play god with other people's feelings? But any good piece of writing always does. The act of writing changes the writer as much as changing the reader, and it is that change which so inherently makes it all interesting.  ¶ 12:08 AM