I died last Friday night. My body was laid out in a makeshift morgue, in an art gallery of all places. Thirteen other corpses surrounded mine, all covered in light blue hospital sheets, a line of lifeless lumps, speed humps with toe tags and ball bags and breasts. Out of the darkness came the sounds of gathering people, glasses clinking, feet scraping, pleasantries and laughter, and then a familiar voice rang out – Silencio! An introduction, then a poem, four minutes of DH Lawrence and dread anticipation, a minor panic attack, and we were surrounded by the sounds of many shoes on parquet flooring, a chaotic percussive accompaniment to a lone cello meandering in a corner and my breath fluttering against the sheet.
One by one the covers were withdrawn, whisked away by unseen hands at our feet, giving one the sensation of being thrust upward and away to float awkwardly in a miasma of sensations, dreamy visions, a waterless sensory deprivation tank. It was difficult to keep track of my limbs. In fact my whole body, while remaining totally still, writhed and convulsed. Occasionally the reality, that I was lying naked (and alive) on the floor next to my partner and twelve other naked people, jerked back into consciousness, like when someone came and tickled my foot as they turned over my toe tag – so they could read my eulogy and connect it to my body.
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