Tag Archives: death

The Rabbit

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The dread from inside
Keeps coming out
To remind you
That the beautiful love you feel
Can not last.
The head will be cut off,
The rabbit will run
Half headless
Into the darkness under the ferns
To die there alone
Panicked and starving.
But that little rabbit
Held trembling
Alive
Kisses your fingers and looks at you
So honestly
Because it needs you
And you can feel its small body
Breathing and shivering
And settling down in your lap
It forgets that there is a world
Away from your lap
That wants to eat it
And boil it
Or put it in an oven
Because its better that way.
That's how you eat a rabbit.
Didn’t you know?
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Neverending

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The days are long and hot and sick and drawn out now. The days are long and dull and hot and sunny so that you have to squint in glasses or take your glasses off and close your eyes for a while and feel that heat, that dry heat on your face, on your eyelids so that when you open your eyes you can feel the heat wrapped up above your eyes in the compressed skin of your eyelids. The days are longer and hotter and your sweat is hot and salty and as annoying as flies so that when the flies do come and hit at your face not wanting to land just hit and tap at your cheek and forehead you wish that all you had were those little drops of sweat. The days are so hot you sit there waiting for that one drop of sweat to roll down and feel all the nerve endings cheer as that drop passes over them and carry that drop down to your chin where you wipe it off. When you wipe it off you look at your hand and then out over the plains, over the fields, over into the next lot where a small family sits, still, as still as you, wiping sweat and swatting flies. Nothing is moving these days; the heat; the death; the three dead cows out in the next field. Sitting under your carport, sitting in the shade while the sun heats up the ground, sitting watching the rest of the earth’s surface baking and dying, sitting watching the three dead cows you own that are dead and the other family watching you watching your cows watching their dog come out from the shade and go back in to the shade. The days are longer than ever, they days now are so long because there is nothing you can do, there is noting anyone can do but sit and watch their cows die or wait until a fly comes or a drop of sweat forms and travels down, tickling your face and neck and being absorbed into the neck of your shirt. There is nothing in this heat but a small family, a husband and wife and two children and their dog, the little boy still alive enough to run around, pick things up and put them down and try to get the dog to move around but they are just like flies moving around. There is nothing but the flies and the heat and sitting there looking at the sun keeping coming and staying and the dust bowls and the dust storms and the yellow grass and the dead livestock and the other livestock not dead yet and something like a heart or a soul urging those claves, silently urging them to get under a tree, go down to the creek and drink. The heat in your joints, under your arms, under your nails, in your hair, as you run the sweat through your hair with your hot nails it’s as if it thins your hair and you look at your fingers to see if any hair is caught in there. The long hot days of death and loose hair and nothing else to help this, this…coming after three months or six months or so a year. The sickness in the throat in the community in the day every day; another dead cow or calf or sheep or whatever animal it is this time. Just the cool night to keep the foxes coming to eat the free flesh of these newly dead meat bags, these unsaleable thin cattle, these leather bags with air and bone, these things that stand there like troopers in the sun, not moving, shallow breathing, eating weeds, prickly weeds that poison them, sickly small white flower buds that the bees don’t touch. The hot days with no pollen and no water and no livestock and no respite, no shade, just under a house, under a half leaved tree roots exposed through the drying dirt, under ground. My youngest boy, now a teenager, has the long drawn face of an old cattle man although he has never drawn cattle or mustered a single beast or killed a calf for food because instead he has dragged a newly dead mutton sheep up from the bottom field and we have skinned it and cooked it. My youngest boy has stopped being a boy because his father told him he must go down and drag that dead sheep up from the paddock and so he went and as he dragged that heavy sixty kilo dead body through the dust, the sound of the dead thing dragging in the dirt, that’s what did it, that’s what did that to this face. My youngest boy dragging a dead body up for us to eat because we couldn’t eat anything else and he knew he had to do it because his father asked him to do it son so he just went and did it and that is how it happens, when you do it like that, when you do it because your father tells you and in your heart it is that you have to do it so you do it and that is how it happens, that type of face. The heart aches to get up and go down and take those young cattle by the nose and lead them down to the creek, the heart doesn’t want to see them, when you are here and they have trodden like that, hard step after hard step, half fumbling like you never want big beasts to do, their stumbling hurts you in the most human way, so that when you get them there you want to see them drink it in, drink something but to have them meander around wondering why you bothered to lead them down this steep incline that used to be a river to nothing, then you can see that they are dead and you put them in a grave they can’t easily walk back out of. What we did was take that old trailer full of half a shed down to the quarry and tip that out into the pit and go back and get the other half but there was more and go and dump that in the quarry and go back and get the rest, fill the rest up into the trailer and have a beer and drive back down to the quarry twenty minutes drive and dump all that there into the pit too and in the end you couldn’t really see what we’d dumped and the birds came anyway, optimistic birds to go through the shed looking for something but there was nothing other than wood and rusted corrugated iron and nails. We drove back and Mike handed me a lit cigarette and I took one puff and let the rest just burn down.

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Exit

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This is the endThere is no emperor
There is no lord
You get to die
All alone
and you can’t even choose
Who surrounds you
At the last
When you most want
To say the truth.
Look at them!
I wish I could have…
Leave me alone!
I love you
My darling
I didn’t know
I didn’t know
The dark birds
Can you see them
Oh god my life
I didn’t know
You could do that
I knew that it was
Something is wrong
I don’t want to go
It’s so stupid
I

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You’re not at home, your lights are on

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In your house tonight

All along
I knew
They were to be watched over
Oh Lord
I gave them a chance
To be true
To be in love
But they were little devils
My Lord
And they deserve
Everything.
Even the taste
Of the devils liquor
On their lips
Wasn't enough
To stop them
Kicking and screaming
And gnashing
As they do in your hell
Where the lost
Struggle for love,
Love they could've had
If they weren't animals still.

 

 

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The Sorrows of Young Werther

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The devil came and asked young Werther
Whether he would like for her to love him so
And young Werther said
“This is what I want most in the world”
And the devil told him
“But you know it won’t be real?”
And Werther said
“I don’t care”.
So they made a bargain
But, there was no bargain
Mephisto already knew their fate
But wanted to plant that seed
In young Werther’s mind
That would kill
The real love he had for Charlotte.
Because Charlotte was betrothed to Albert
Yet Werther knew she loved him
It was too much to bear
So he shot himself with a pistol
And it took twelve hours to die.
Mephistopheles saved the boy
From learning the truth
That Lotte loved Albert
And he was a poor fool always.

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We had a child

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We had a child
That died
But that was so long ago
It now feels like
We had a life
That will never exist.
“Why don’t we have another baby?”
“Because you are so upset.”
“I think I am ready.”
“But you will always have lost a child
Forever
And the personality,
Our hope for this child,
Will be always
An imagination.”

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The War

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The witch lifted up her gown to reveal a horrid stench the likes of which I’d never smelt and it wasn’t what was under her skirt, she released a little creature hunched over, like a half baby thing with a thin white skin and she said “so now you see what there is” and I had my hand to my mouth, or more, I had my shirt over my mouth and nose. “I wanted you to give me what I wanted not give me this, thing”. The thing as it was fell over and hugged itself, like it was dying and I moved over to it but the witch hissed at me and said “don’t you dare touch it!” and I stopped there and asked “what is it?” and she said “This thing came from me because of you”. I moved back, put my clothes back in place, looked at the thing and then back to the witch. “Do I need to do anything with it?”. “No” she answered. “You gave me nothing”. “I can only give you what they give”. “They?” There is nothing for me here, only waste and disease. I give her the five hundred dollars, collect the little dying thing in my arms, against her screams for me to leave it alone, I push her over onto her bed and get the hell out of there.
 

Antoine calls and tells me a name. I barely get to say anything back, really, I say ‘ok’ and that’s it. The thing squirms next to me in the passenger seat. I don’t know whether to clothe it or kill it. It has the face of a man but the body of an infant platypus, that’s the best way to describe it. It has the essence of wings and the legs of a chicken. Perhaps it is a child angel? Who knows what she is capable of producing. She brought Angela back to life, her rotten corpse giving me a few more lines from her dead carcass, her jaw barely able to make the sounds needed to tell me who her killer was. She was yelling for most part, screaming about how the afterlife is so horrible and all that hate inside coming out in a gross guttural blathering until she gave up a name and we could let her soul rest and her body went limp as soon as I called it off and snuffed the blood candles. Fucking witchcraft.

 

I don’t know why but I wake up and have to vomit. I can only get as far as the sink and it comes out, it’s yellow and black and blood. Christ what the fuck is happening, these black magic arseholes getting inside me. I go back to bed and the thing is there, already bigger, about two feet now, its wings growing and its face more beautiful than you could imagine, I start crying and holding my stomach, something is wrong. I move it over and there is mucus or whatever it is on the mattress. I try to pick it up but it starts to beat around like a wounded bird so I leave it. I get my phone and call the witch that gave it to me but she doesn’t pick up so I call Damien instead. He answers straight away and I tell him what I’ve got. He laughs and tells me to feed it fruit and I ask him what to do and he tells me to wait until it’s bigger and moving and I ask “then what” and he says “just call me”.

 

Days pass, I leave strawberries near its face and watch it grow and shed its soft early feathers and grow proper limbs and more and more it smells of flowers and not the gross death smell the witch had. I decide to leave it in my apartment and go out. It’s not five minutes after I get a coffee that an old man in a brown suit stops me and says “Do you know of the Christ Saviour” and I tell him I do and he says “He knows about you too” and I say “I know” and he holds my arm and says “He wants to love you” and I let him go and know that he is both right and assuredly has no idea what he is talking about. I have a new born angel of god in my bed. If I told him that he would try and give it to a priest or someone or else he’d have a half alive child thing in his hands and he would be killed by a demon as soon as he left his domicile. The people do not know about the war but some of them can feel it.

 

It’s a child now, what looks like a ten year old boy but it’s not a boy, it has large wings and thin legs and a face that looks like a Botticelli painting and makes a soft lyrical sound like a woodwind instrument coming from a soprano. It hums a faint melody that makes me cry again. I cry as I make a pot of coffee and roll a cigarette and finish my coffee and pour myself a scotch and want it to stop this crying/singing/soulful lament thing but I go back in the room and see it’s even bigger and I put a few apples and half a watermelon near its face and it looks at me and I cry harder. I leave and smoke my cigarette in the kitchen. As I finish my cigarette, dousing it under the tap and throwing it into the trash it appears in the door frame, full, glowing, looking right at me with its soft wings loosely spread. “Hello” I say and it sings again and I can do nothing but cry.

 

“It’s here” I tell Antoine and he tells me “Ok good. Did you call Damien?” “Yes I called him, maybe two weeks ago”. “And?” “And? What do you mean…um, yeah, he told me to feed it fruit”. “Ok good. And you did and now you need to call him again”. “Christ Antoine, this thing, I…I can’t fucking look at it….every time it’s like…fuck”. “Ok ok calm down. Call Damien right now ok?”. “Sure”. I call Damien of course and he tells me to wait, that it’s not the time yet and that he doesn’t know what he wants to do yet. I tell him “Great! What the fuck do I do in the meantime?” and he tells me to put handcuffs on it and I explain there are no hands anymore and he says “well lock it the fuck up somehow” and I say I will. I walk into the room and it is perched on my lounge and I gesture for it to move but it actually speaks now and says “you are a child of Yeshua” and I know what it is saying and I rush over to it but it moves so softly and quietly that I am crying again as if its movements sung to me and it says “Your soul wants love, not this” and it moves again, this time next to me and it lets me know it is okay for me to lock it in the basement so it follows me down and lets me close the door on it.

 

It is the morning and I open the door to the basement and bring Damien down with me and his eyes roll back and his fingers become like daggers and his voice, deeper than always tells me “is this the place Jeremy” and I am scared and say “yes” and he moves past me into the darkness and I scramble back up the stairs and turn on the lights and he is on the bird creature and they are struggling and its feathers are coming off and Damien’s claws are going into it but it looks like the white creature moving under him rises over him and it’s singing a soft song and now it has its feet on Damien’s neck and is standing over him and breaking his body into two pieces and when it is done it rushes up from the basement and past me and out through the front door and as it does it changes into something I have never seen and it disappears so fast, leaving me with a warmth I’ve never felt and the heat becomes hotter and hotter and in my chest I feel it hard until I can’t stand up anymore.

 

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Westbury Academy Boy’s School Murders

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The Westbury Academy Boys School (or WABS as it’s known) is like Hogwarts if you replaced wizards with cunts and it’s where I teach English to a bunch of boyishly haircutted, ugly smirking, future banker types whose fathers are all assholes and whose mothers are all whores. There is no exception, there is no scholarship student with redeeming qualities who over the years gains the respect and admiration of his peers. Just a school full of lucky pricks with huge flat screen HD LCD TVs in their rooms. Perhaps the worst subject to teach is the one I’m paid ridiculously large amounts to teach to these seething pubescent furious masturbators because deep within their brainwashed mind they have come to understand that ‘English’; words, poems, or more accurately made up fiction is (a) beneath them (b) of no consequence and (c) cannot possible make you ‘big’ money. While they may be right in all three cases, i.e. (a) not accessible to them (b) philosophically arguable but not in the context they mean and (c) 100% true, and that this explains their general moronic behaviour when attending my lectures, it still does not excuse them from inciting me to slit each and every one of their throats during the night and in doing so know that I have made the future I plan on living in marginally better. The first ‘house boy’ I killed was a fifteen your old podge-faced red head, a crown to sole freckled little asshole. Nothing worse than an ugly chubby ginger scoffing at Kafka, so naturally I made the clever, life affirming move to mix in some/a lot of granulated sulfuric acid in with his white sugar the fat fuck heaped liberally on his wheat bix every morning. He actually managed to get through Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday like that, coughing and spluttering and otherwise woofing those bix down, not really caring that his insides were disintegrating and, god be praised, was too ashamed to tell anyone about the blood he was shitting out. Thursday was different, he didn’t feel like eating but, you know, the combination of peer pressure and general gluttony made him take that fourth and final bowl. Oh he got through it, sure, but lets just say I didn’t see him in fourth period English.
 

I just realised how horrible and animalistic and simple I must sound. Instead of going back and editing and perhaps all together deleting all of that I think it more pertinent to describe my situation more clearly. And again, no, I wasn’t harassed or had eggs thrown at me or whatever other horribly devastating things these low-level leaders of tomorrow could imagine would actually hurt a person, no, nothing like that. This is more of a…a…correction, to the world. I would be remiss in my duties as a teacher, a leader, a guide to these young men if I was to simply release these creatures into the world unschooled, unaware, unwittingly free to become the people we despise tens of years on throughout existence. And lets face it, if WABS, given its heritage, is in fact the breeding ground for future Ministers and Kings and CEOs then, yes, there should be some kind of test, some kind of conditions in which they are allowed to progress to such integral positions that affect all of everyone else. Right?

 

The term super hero has been, I mean, really misused and pretty much claimed by both the comic book kingdom and Neitzsche. Oh and god no I am not pretending I am a super hero, a regular hero? No not even. Let’s forget I opened with that. What I want you to understand is that, okay, imagine if there was a way to prevent the horrors of tomorrow’s bad decisions from every happening? Okay? And that’s what I’m doing. I’m stopping the worst people from progressing to their falsely pre-ordained if-the-shoe-fits roles that, ultimately, will end in the destruction of everyone/thing. Some part inside of you is agreeing I know, I know. I don’t like it either, hell, I strangled a thirteen year old down in the laundry room! How do you think I feel! It’s not about that though and I know, all you have to do is nod a tiny little bit and we can move on. Can I get a little nod? Not to killing children god no. I’m not about that at all. I just think you and I can agree that, hey, perhaps some of these undeserving close minded ‘borne to be leaders’ types, perhaps, maybe, actually don’t deserve to and worse shouldn’t ever be leaders.

 

Examples. Of course. Bradley McPherson (no relation to Elle). Oh my god you should have seen him (yes dead now). He looked forty five already, a nice round paunch, receding hairline, double chin! Really, a more suitable candidate for General Manager I have never seen. And he was sixteen! And this appearance, this sluggish gait and general under-qualified-but-a-prick-anyway demeanour wasn’t scolded, it was respected and (get ready to vomit) celebrated! He was awarded ‘most likely to succeed’, ‘leader of the debating team’, ‘executive on the student council’, ‘advisor to the bursar on excessive spending’ (after his year eleven ‘thesis’ on profitable school management). I mean, he cut off about 65% off gratuitous spending for students and was applauded. Now I mean, these are the people I am dealing with here, knowingly serving the body corporate, instinctually forgoing services in aid of revenue, approving negligent cut backs for the sake of shareholder (namely, their parents’) investments. I mean, to deliberately cut off your own amusement for the good of the insular economy of one (namely WABS) is existentially insane. He had to go.

 

Now as a teacher this one students’ contributions to the school did not disadvantage me at all, in fact, they actually heightened the luxury spending for the faculty because of the un-forecasted profits returned to the school. We have the most comfortable staff room in the country, replate with leather bound armoires, fully stocked libraries with many first editions, state of the art technology and 18 hour access to a fully stocked kitchen with a full time staff of eight. No, the exorbitance is not (or never) the problem in such regimes. It’s the complex balance between haves and have nots, the blatant disregard for your fellow man which results in a gluttonous over compensation for the ‘overlords’ coupled with the fact that this ingenious thinking is welcomed by those meagre individuals who (a) have been deprived and (b) see there depravation as directly enhancing their superiors, and worst (c) applaud and respect this outcome because in their mind they are working their way up to become the fat pigs in the upper echelons who will be rewarded in the end from cutting off and depriving the ‘lower class’ from receiving what they deserve or even what they had as a necessity.

 

Can I let you in on a secret? I really enjoyed this one way I dispatched this little bucktoothed capitalist prim-and-proper kid. I know it’s horrible to say but hear me out. In my position I was able to use the god-tool of grades to persuade this Bradley (no, it was not abbreviated to Brad for his friends, well, no one really had friends here, associates…yes they say that) that he needed help to up his English grade so that he could get into Harvard Business School. Almost instantly and without questioning (even though several of his housemates have died mysteriously) he agreed to meet me at seven pm in my office to negotiate a way to increase his grade. He arrived at seven on the dot, plonked a briefcase on my desk and opened it, clearly having watched too many movies, unclasped the locks and revealed, I don’t know maybe twenty or thirty thousand dollars in cash (all fifties…what the fuck is wrong with these kids?).

“Ah Brad., that’s…”

“Bradley”

“Yes, Brad, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. You know that you, and several of your classmates, aren’t really doing well in my class and…”

“Who else?”

“Brad, it’s not about that”

“Bradley. And maybe you’re a shit teacher then? Maybe I should report you to the board?”

“The board? There’s no board Brad. It’s the faculty. You’re not in business yet son”

“I’m not your…”

“Shut up I knew you’d say that, that’s way I said ‘son’. That’s why I keep saying Brad. Do you get it?”

“No…I…”

“Of course not. I’ll tell you why, Brad. Subtlety. Subtlety. One word, very simple, but completely lost on all of you. You see Brad, you don’t care what you look or sound like, you just want results, is that true?”

“Well…yes…I came here with, this bag and…”

“Yes I know, and this the point Brad. Ahhhh let me think”

And after that I went to my drawer, and pulled out a long knife and was trying to pretend to explain something about life and fear and culture but was really just trying to get closer to him and when I was close enough I just sank it into his heart. Funny really, it just goes in. He actually looked up at me and then looked down at the knife and then died. There was blood everywhere and I rolled him up in the rug and dragged him into my en-suite. I didn’t know what to do so I went back to my room. Here’s the good part, the very god damned next day the police came and I, naturally was panicked out of my mind, I mean, there was a dead fat boy in my bathroom but what happened next was they shut down the school, all the boys returned to their rooms and the announcement was made to staff that Henry Thompson, Religious Instructor and Pastor, was being arrested for child sex offences and that he was responsible for the missing boys of late and that investigations were ongoing. Yay!

 

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Belief is only inside of you (four related parts of one life where belief is elusive)

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Dying because he loves her and she loves her god

When I went to visit Henry, when I was asked to go with Jane to visit Henry I thought ‘how funny: “Jane asked Alan to visit Henry”‘. His leg (her uncle’s leg, like she owns some of it!) had grown to the size of three legs and he would not get an operation because his new wife (of less than a year) was a Jehovah’s witness and those idiots think medical intervention is against god’s will whilst simultaneously believing that all events happen due to god’s will so that this god that they believe in wants him to have aggressive (reversible and curable also within god’s world) cancer that will kill him very painfully soon. He even shows it to us and it’s huge and lumpy and strange (the growth has made the leg look different, like a twisted muscle with patches of hair) and he is smiling for some reason so I smile too and ignore the fact that his leg is huge and clearly he will not be alive much longer and Jane is really upset, visibly upset but Henry’s wife is by his side smiling as emphatically as he is and all I can think of is that (a) they are happy and (b) they are fucking stupid as hell as we are in a hospital and maybe fifteen doctors pass by in less minutes and probably every one of them can (or could have) saved his life. She loves him so much but not as much as she loves her moronic faith so this love sick and cancer-sick fool will die painfully (no medicine) because (a) he loves this idiot woman (who is quite pretty lets face it) and (b) out of her love for him (and her basic pathetic religious beliefs) she thinks this is right and good and proper and loves him even more for sticking to her-version-of-a-god’s plans.

 

Thou shalt love no other god but me

She left me sitting there in my house and we never had kids because we wanted money and style and taste and holidays and she told me she was leaving because she wanted to have children and she found a man she knew would be a good father and she didn’t want it to be too late (she was 36) and I said ‘wait, you never wanted to have kids’ but I only said that in my own head, sitting there now on the lounge (part of the suite) looking around at our wonderful stuff that looks so good really and I laugh because it all looks so good but it is sitting there, not moving, sitting there being good to look at, being designed well, being perfect and I hate it all. It is not perfect it is disgusting, it is in place of a child. Did I want children? Did she trick me into not wanting children when in fact she did? The worst pain is that she did want children but not with me. I pour myself a drink at the bar and only now realise ‘I have a bar’. I am not me anymore. I became not me. I liked not being me because I was filled up to the point of emptiness and finishing another drink (of which there will be plenty more to come) I knew then why she left.

 

There is nothing left in this world without your god

Carpet. Feet. Drink. Cigarette. Walking to the window, looking outside. Sitting on the bed. Drink. Turning on the TV. Watching it empty inside. Hating them on the TV because they are dead and like corpses stink like decay and remind me. Drink. Drinking and walking. Carpet under my toes. Dirty feet. Dirty carpet. A picture on the wall of a bunch of flowers in a vase. Motel room picture, motel room bed, motel room sink that I vomit in. I didn’t need to vomit, I wanted to vomit. It hurts and I smoke again. Drink. I call for a prostitute to come and its going to be eight hundred dollars. Eight hundred dollars to not shower and get my dick sucked in a condom. I laugh and wait. Drink. Cigarette. Turn the TV on again. Its worse. Hang out the window and its midday. Cars and people moving about. I don’t wish I was them anymore. I fart. I drink. I smoke a cigarette and the knock at he door. I open the door and the most beautiful woman I have ever seen is standing there fresh and clean and so pretty. I finish my drink and ask he if she wants a drunk and she says no and I say ‘I’m going to take a shower. I go and take a shower. ‘What does she think, sitting there in my room, clothes and broken glasses and some cigarette butts on the flor. What does she think is going to happen. Is she repulsed? Do I care if she is repulsed?’ and I know, standing there with water running on my head, I realise I have changed, I do not care what she thinks. I will get her to suck my cock while I drink and I may not even cum but I will get this stranger, this young stranger maybe fifteen or more years younger than me to suck my cock in five minutes time and not care at all about her and perhaps even like not caring. That is how far away I am. That is what happens after all. After all that has happened.

 

Alone because you love your god and no one knows that god

You should come down. It’s speakers corner! It’s as old as the city itself. My great uncle used to come down because he hated the japs but of course you can’t hate the japs anymore and my grandfather said he was fighting in Turkey he had nothing to do with the japs but my great uncle, who didn’t actually go to war, was here when we might have had to give Queensland to the japs and they bombed Darwin and that’s why he hated the japs but he had another theory about what was wrong with them and his theory was that they were perverse and wrong because they didn’t believe in anything and anything could happen, ‘you just never know with those japs’ he’d say and that really scared him so anyway that was the type of stuff he’d go on about at the old speaker’s corner in Hyde Park. You should come down, is on the weekend, the best day is Saturday because old Bill, really that is his name, Bill! Old Bill he’s on about this energy thing with…and I listened to him a few times don’t get me wrong but it’s like, he says that we can all feel energy and some of us ignore it or whatever or know it and can feel it and I get what he means but he isn’t that good at explaining it but one time this chick all in tattoos was saying ‘yeah yeah’ with him and she wasn’t laughing and she was alone so I don’t know what she was doing or if she liked him or anything. But my idea is that, it’s the same as before you were born when you are dead and when you think about before you are born its all white and nice and soft and asleep and when you think about after you are dead it all dark and bloody and nothing so I think we need to change that and so I have this thing that I always say and its ‘when you die you will remember what it was like to not be alive’.

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