Immensely fragile and imminently broken, this husk you inhabit is yours until it isn’t. I don’t know where the pieces of you go once you’ve left yourself behind.
Everything is a tomb if you want it to be. The entryway to this one is a door without a key. What waits below has been there the whole time. Proceeding forward through the stacks of boxes and scattered personal effects, you allow yourself to relive the moments they represent. Your nostalgia is auto-tuned to the humming of the dwindling bulbs overhead. A bright light ushers you along the narrow path to the back of the room. The beaming rectangular hole you encounter emanates an uncharacteristically bright light, beckoning your tribute.
A small sign adorned with scraps of musical notes and a singular piece of wheat welcomes you to this site of memorial. Theres not enough room to stand, but you can crawl and lie down comfortably here. The walls are covered with aged relics and pictures in odd frames. This life laid bare is full of embellished narratives, sensitively expressed figurations, and cherished objects, now cracking and rugged with age.
Your contemplation is weighed down by the musty air around you, which has now invaded every crevice of your form. Every breath you take replaces healthy air with wet basement fog. As you acclimate to your new environment you imagine that soon, you will be mist.
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