Yesternight you chose not to visit my grave.
I wanted to tell I’m now a mass of powdery bones dancing to the noise of the stereo in my coffin. But lately the batteries have burned out, and I needed you to get me new ones from the market.
I’m sorry I pledged the culture of suicide but I wasn’t the only he was calling. We were many, depressed bodies obeying the alchemy in his whoop; pecking our eardrums and dying in resonant space.
He promised that the grave is honeyed than Heaven.