Your way, I’d be in the ground, earth packed tight like sand. No epitaph or eulogy, condolence card to family, though maybe a postscript blog post or FB message using movie references to say what you really think, all important words starred out, so that no-one but me knows. Except, in this scenario, I’m dead, grave stone instead of address. Saves on a stamp.

Don’t want to be burnt alive, buried surviving 6 days after, donated to medical science. You say, “How about Donor Cards?” but I can’t see anyone wanting my brain or bones or heart with you ghost-trapped in it.

You suggest, “Well there’s buried at sea,” but I don’t like this either, piranhas nipping at my eyelids, detaching retinas, the pathways of which are neuritis marred, a car in need of a clean it can’t have. “Piranhas don’t live in the sea,” is your lecture, proof academia’s in your blood at least as much as acting’s in mine, and I play the point out so you lecture me more, for I like that tone. I like every.

“I saw an exhibit once. Free tickets. Body parts in plastic. Maybe art’s your answer.” The off-centre speckles of my MRI would make a frame pop, spine lesions exotic, fat replaced so I do not decay. Made in an acetone bath. But I like Cryogenics best. Even if it’s just a head, glass box, meeting unwanted eyes in 2090.

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