She was scared of the dark, just like I was.

My sister was a terror. And for that she sometimes had to endure my beatings. At other times she simply had to be held captive while I force-fed her horror stories. She was scared of the dark, just like I was. I often checked for monsters underneath the bed, even as I steadily chugged towards so-called adulthood. But darkness and the ghouls that inhabited the negative space also had a magnetic pull on me.
Like Satan in the windowless bathroom.
Like Juha Valjakkala.Because sadness and darkness are so much alike. And maybe, in the end, the same thing?

The trial date had been set and it was fast approaching. I had to go. I was destined to see my pen pal in real life. I felt instilled with helium when I thought about it. It was that same feeling of anticipation as a concert with your favorite band, for which you have a ticket in a heart-shaped box for, is coming up.

A few years later I felt that tingly nausea as I entered Pere Lachaise through and iron gate, and begun following the graffiti towards the lizard king. It got to my head and I was dizzy as I hurried through the maze of tombstones. But when me and my friend Etta arrived at Jim Morrison's grave that feeling sank like a rock to the bottom of my stomach and was replaced by a dull ache. The site was filthy with beer cans, crushed glass and cigarette butts. The people that hung out there seemed like lost souls with scraggly hair and worn tie-dyed t-shirts. One guy strummed on a guitar in desperate need of some tuning. It wasn't a worthy resting place for a king. We took our six-pack of Stella Artois and wandered randomly along a path and in silence, after awhile, we came upon Oscar Wilde's tombstone. There peace and stillness had settled onto the granite. And some of that rubbed off on us too.