Death. It swirls around like horse flies in a summer pasture. Death. How will I remember? I make mental memories. Ask questions I wouldn’t have raised. Topics I wouldn’t have touched.
How will I be remembered? No children. No branch.
My writings. A leaf? Maybe. I used to think I wrote well. I used to boast about my art. Not a craft. Art. I thought I was an artist. My words were art. That confidence died. Just a memory. A was. Or a was it. Doesn’t matter. A then.
I believe in the resurrection of the body. I believe in the again. So. I’m going to Frankenstein my art. Sure a blog is ass. Sure no one reads it. I think of my words as my epitaph. My tombstone. If one walks by ...