Tales as described by those who lay teetering upon the fraying rope. Late to rest, late to wake. All dependent in our functioning. Slight glimpses back relay the pain of yesterday, thinking in today only provides us in what we already know, thinking in tomorrow and I ask how far?

I've grown comfortable with mortality. So comfortable it's been nixed off my "what makes me sad" fill in. I might die in my sleep, I might not live to thirty. At any moment I might recieve a knife to the intestinal, be smashed into giblets by an oncoming bus, or gang raped by a team of kidnappers in a white van and the music of Tchaikovsky obfuscates my cries as they take turns cracking my face open with a hammer's claw end.

And If I stay inside I just might drink myself to death.

Sometimes late at night, when I can't sleep I think about my own funeral. About who would come? And would it be an open casket or would it be locked shut denying my some variation of my perhaps mutiliated shell. Them embalmers and funeral services've got some nice tricks there. I've seen some first hand. Which might be on hand for a career change.

When it comes to the questions of graves and ashes, I start to think i'll need a will. And what just will the will state? That to them, this to that guy, she can have that shit.. my organs to science with a no using me for fucking plastic surgery clause.. and then I start to look through the book by Amy Halloran, Stiff: The Curious Lives of Cadavers and look for other options..


And then I get to reflect on my life.
And then I realize I haven't done anything.
And that kills me.
And it's time to fix that.