Day 219

The dead don’t bathe. The dead don’t gather in hoards. The dead don’t sit under thick oak and read Jane Eyre or the book filled with scents of orange falling from a sky that lost itself. Instead, the dead read the book with the bull in it. Or maybe it’s not a bull but a bear surrounded by yellow wallpaper. It doesn’t matter. The dead don’t remember. Sometimes the dead masturbate to strange bodies with blurry faces as they fold into end tables that lean against empty walls, and sometimes the dead eat the poets napping in the woods after a morning of gluing birds to paper. The dead don’t remember the last time they ate a Pop Tart. The dead are dead. The dead think light beer tastes like piss. The dead bang their shins against fire hydrants. The dead tape laughter. The dead moonlight as voice actors. The dead Facebook stalk their exes and immediately regret it. The dead are always lonely but not the most lonely.