in the face of death, all our little games lose sense.
it is the ars moriendi in our parts, to talk of passing on like it were a trip to somewhere else.
‘if something happens, you know who to call. because they will know where the death-clothes are. and the money is..there. and i am telling this to you because your bro is out cold drunk’
and yes. not to worry. not to come over because of snows and stuff. not to mess up someone else’s day.
and ‘do not be angry or upset with me for being like this. i feel better now. just need to sleep. and all will be alright.’
this is the ars moriendi of my people, my family. and this is what i will do, when my time comes. yet – why the **ll does it ducking hurt like that.
and all the decisions i will make now will be wrong. plain wrong. whatever i do, or think, or abstain from doing. i believe this is that hurts the worst.