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A story about a girl being stalked by someone who performs as a living statue, and spends the time when he is not performing either stalking her online, or actually creeping around her flat and being very still so that she doesn’t notice.

Probably one of the creepiest short stories I have ever read from Nail Gaiman. Not a good creepy though…

Because really. Nobody likes to imagine being stalked. And the bits of online stalking…?

Despite the wishes I used to express about having more companions or just more socialization…one of my fondest hopes is that I’ve cultivated my habits to deflect interest. I’d rather not be bothered with, just because that seems safer than to go the way of my sister, who has always cultivated a more inviting demeanor, and is now constantly worried about being stalked by people she works with or by customers or by people that she doesn’t want to know anymore…

Sometimes I think she’s just flattering herself, but one can never really know unless something bad happens.

But yeah. Been thinking about that in a general sort of way because of some things happening with her and with my neighborhood, which don’t bear writing about but which make me uneasy…and then this story had to happen when I was doing my bit of reading for the night and eating my too-hot soup that I wish now I hadn’t eaten…

And there was a song, too. A song that was really rude for persuading me to like it, and then admitting that it’s about a murder-suicide. I let too many of those get past me, I think…songs about guys killing their girlfriends or their children because they can’t handle life.

What does that say about me, I wonder? The getting suckered in by things that turn out to be really horrible? (Probably that I have bad taste in musics.)

Sleeptime is now.