cereal after sex

Sitting in a chair in front of a mirror talking to myself with imaginary razor and lightning bugs fluttering about. I remember an abandoned church in dead town Texas and how the lost souls thrived in the place of wood and holy water. I feel wrapped up in the wonder of death. To no longer be in this world anymore. What will that be like? Where will I go, or will it just be dark vapor like before I was born. And there is no realization of anything. Lights out. Nothing. Blank. Imperceptible. Will I breathe or be a zombie? Will I be able to drink grape juice with my breakfast? Will I be able to taste her kiss from a million miles away? Will I be high on propofol and drown in darkness? There should be death counseling before one goes. To talk about the suffering one endured during life, to talk about the broken love and the fucked up afternoons high on some sort of juice or plant or planet. Cremation seems so final. Put me in a capsule and blast me into space. Let me ride the astral waves, let me bob and weave through the universe for eternity. I’ll be some grotesque body smiling and dreaming. I’ll be some broken soul still trying to find a place, wondering why we must die.