Concerning the Funeral

“Night, the shadow of Light,
“and Life, the shadow of Death.” -- Algernon Charles Swineburne



   It began, as so many things do, with a funeral.
  There was nothing memorable about it, or noteworthy, or a burgeoning fractal entrance deserving Dickens’ “best of times, worst of times” bit. It wasn’t even raining. Taylor wasn’t exactly sure why he was there, but he stood stoic in the gravesite sun because this feeling was nothing foreign.
  He had been told, in the past, that he had a Problem. It was one of those terse psycho-terms he had become accustomed to and eventually learned to block out, not let affect him. People were always trying to tell him he had some issue or another. He seldom paid attention. He disagreed on the whole anyway. There were empty places in his memory, and sometimes he woke in place he didn’t remember falling asleep. He had read about that, so that was all right, and anyway that kind of thing rarely happened anymore.
  The sky was bright and brittle, a teasing Monet sun dangling where it should warm but letting the chill seep through insufficient clothing. Taylor absently searched for a reason to convince him he should still be standing here.
  Across the small gathering of faceless mourners, his eyes met those of that Asian kid who lived downstairs. The kid’s blank, halcyon eyes flickering briefly in silent remorse, and then visibly froze again. Taylor moved away, strolling among the tombstones.
  Eventually he noticed the eulogy had ended, and the black forms were coalescing like some soiled watercolor. He felt a soft tug at his sleeve, looked to see the Asian kid. He tried to think of what he should say, then realized the kid was talking.