We are about to enter the kingdom of the Dead--some of us will breathe and some will not; some will have hot blood, some will have no blood at all. My heart grieves for Ajax, the strongest of the few, unjustly called upon for humiliation. A wall of windows--green with envy, blue with despair, red with ire, and ice cold gray for shame.
What are the Dead like? The same minus the soul. And what is a man without a soul? A cavern, dank and all adrip with the tears of old sunlight. What are the eyes like? Windows to nowhere, or to a wasteland. Unconquerable and hungry for the company of neurons. Unrelenting--all the Dead do is look and look. Every image is a feast; this they learn once life has said goodbye, prematurely or otherwise. Strength is no concern. Made of memories, they are broken matter and fade with time.
T.S. Eliot thinks the Dead wear "deliberate disguises" but he is wrong.
Tonight I want to know what it feels like to die; I want to know what it is like to confront my killer who implores me to say "hello, old friend!"; I want to play Persephone's fool--director of fevers and madness.
What does it feel like to have something fly out of you? To have your body burn?
Getting the blood must be a cold climax.
Ah! What does it mean to haunt? Yes, to haunt. I have found it. Tonight, I will get all dressed up to do my haunting at long last.
Distant and solemn eyes like rain, unable to verbally communicate with one another. Speech is a form of life, is it not? The birth of a thought, totally unleashed on the world and able to fulfill any prophecy.
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