in the aftermath of death always lies life. as it continues, in others. vibrantly sad, often. or as in sex... after each small death of giving oneself to other(s), numb from feeling too much, one regains energy. to go on.

mostly. most of the time. death is never the end. it is always a beginning, sort of. not necessarily fruitful nor good. it just is. because... one (me, you, them, us) stops being what one (you, they, we, I) was before as death takes away particles of each composite (loved ones, cherished things, ephemeral affections and addictions) that makes one (all) unique.

so one gets tired of death living in a slum-squat in one's head. selfish, without giving life back. as it deflates mind and dries up flesh, in the trails of dead skin one finds ever-present loved ones who are slowly dying, moldy cherished things, all ghosts of addictive disaffection. one hopes for rebirth after each death, but then... again suddenly, news of an old lover dying, or a best friend from adolescence, then a father dies and in cue, all the musical idols of one's youth start to die... breathing only half-way, stuck in mid-life in its most decaying form one screams for life. l i f e. one repeats it over and over, and one only wants sex. the feel of. the fluidity of. the music of. s e x. for sex is life. sex always fucks you into existence... always.