People act like talking to the dead is some kind of specialty. I talk to the dead on pretty much a nightly basis. What precious little sleep I get is marred by the fuckers weeping and carrying on as if they were alive; and they are. My dead will follow me and my dreaming life to the grave- telling me their cancer’s getting better, or getting me to help them rob a liquor store so they can join a frat. I think it would have helped if my waking life had borne more of a semblance of reality, but I’m a southerner fuck you; and the older I get, that blurry line between sleep and wakefulness is like a streak of molasses on a plate dividing grits and fried eggs from a Niciose salad. You would be alarmed how permeable that border is, and how natural it tastes.

I love the world enough, but I hope it’s not enough to prevent me from leaving it in peace. I don’t want to fuck with people’s sleep. I want to die thoroughly, and atomize in the consciences of my fellow beings. Because if I were to haunt them, I would be so frighteningly needy they’d ultimately have to mortgage their houses to pay for therapy. I’m currently not in negotiations with my ghost, but I don’t need to be to tell you that motherfucker is a sleep devourer.

I’m not telling you you’ve got to bury me in my home soil in a lead casket surrounded by two hundred cubic yards of concrete, although that might be a start, but I am telling you. Martha my dear, forget me. Forget me. Forget me.