He was obsessed with thinking. Thoughts seemed to pile-up in his head like a crash on the 405 Freeway. There was always congestion. “Nice,” he thought, “using the traffic simile to describe an overactive mind.” Jeremy Clyde was plagued by recurring bouts of depression, extreme sexual fantasies, and constant self-doubt. He learned to live with it — He finally accepted himself and all his peculiarities. He was able to cautiously move forward with his life — he got his GED and went to work in an office. He lived in a rented room. He adapted, but he remained withdrawn — too shy to socialize. He had no friends. It wasn’t much of a life — Jeremy had no ambition. He told himself he was held back by the constant chatter in his head. He felt forced to accept his lot in life. Acceptance lightened his burden and he began to enjoy small distractions like reading a fantasy novel or watching television. TV made him horny and Jeremy learned to curb his depression by masturbating. He enjoyed the blood-pounding sensation brought on by arousal. He began to change — cautiously venturing out of his shell, socializing and making a few friends. It was a good step forward until the day arrived when he woke up dead. Jeremy felt the cold, metal table pressed against his naked back. He was covered with a sheet and he couldn’t move. Cold seeped into his bones and darkness vibrated in his skull — his eyes were sealed shut. Jeremy heard inchoate murmurs and the scraping of metal tools. Words began to pile up in his head — frantic chattering — the sound of speeding cars crashing into one another. The chatter never really stopped. It was always there — a warning he never heeded. Jeremy couldn’t bare to face reality. He’d just begun to live and now he was present at his own autopsy. The knife slid into his chest — the pathologist separated bones to get to the meat. Jeremy felt everything — the invasion of the scalpel, the cracking of his bones.