I've just finished the first draft of a trio of short stories about Denton Mills, a young man with fondness for body piercings, colorful socks, and an unfortunate connection to dead people. So now I'm editing, editing, and editing some more. So far this is what the first paragraph looks like:
Dying sucked hairy monkey balls. Even when you weren't the one doing it. Denton hated running into the final moments of strangers. Unfortunately, he couldn't always help it. This particular street corner had been safe a week before. The oversized man now clutching his chest must have died sometime since last Tuesday. Heart attack. Denton felt an echo of panic sweep through him and had to grab onto a lamppost to keep from tumbling onto the pavement too. He barely had 135 pounds for his 5' 9" frame, yet he could clearly feel the mass of flesh weighing him down, squeezing the life out of him. At least it was over fast. The man stopped breathing and his presence faded away, both from the street and Denton's mind. He shook himself and took a few deep breaths before getting on his way. As he hurried down the street, he took a mental note to avoid that corner for a few months at least--till the trace of fresh death had had a chance to dissipate.
I'm sure it'll change.