Annie had been twenty-seven when she’d died. When she discovered this, she couldn’t imagine ever being so young, despite never having been aware she was older. [more: Frank Morgan]
“Did you know?” Annie asked. “That we’re dead?”
“Not we,” Sam insisted. “Me. You can’t die, Annie, you’re a fantasy.”
The funny thing about Sam saying these things was that Annie had always half-wondered if Sam was a figment her mind had created to entertain her now she wasn’t occupying it with psychological babble; complete with superiority and Freudian Oedipal complexes in place. The truth that Sam was merely oblivious was less appealing.
Reason(s) for not having written: Time, that's all. Time has not been on my side.