When I was living I left fear voids, an embarrassed unspeaker of things that should be said, comforting things, cool bed covers on a summer’s day things. Each well thought out novel excerpt bottled up into an awkward moment’s silent little soliloquy. Each repressed emoticon too cliché, too much like a movie line, rehearsed sounding, as if mumbled sideways by some sappy poet ready to expose my delicate ego to some mirage of infinite possible responses, or worse, left desolate in wide open silence. It was these Unspoken things that were swallowed by swift moments, hesitations led by a tug-boat of doubt, slow moving but of powerful persuasion tightening the unsure rope around the words on the tip of my tongue and dragging them to the back of my remorseful throat. And the dead drew tears. They would never know the words I had kept to myself. Then I died and went to a place similar to what you’d think and they sat me gently down at a wooden desk and slid a book under my nose. The title was simple: Unspoken. The authors were many and line one chapter one read “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” And the living drew tears.