Here's an excerpt from my novel, Happy, and a photo I took last week of Andy Warhol's Skull at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Over time, there was a certain numbing. Occasionally, it was as if he was observing his actions through a pane of smoked glass. With increasing frequency, he awoke from night terrors in which he could not locate his firearm. In the company of Charon's chattel, he had been forced to admit that whatever delicate system enabled him to do this job was likely being irreparably damaged by doing it. Of course, it was hard to know, when you were surrounded by homicidal maniacs, when you bore witness to death every day you lived, when you got home at night and the guy in the mirror looked a lot like you, only deader.