When it’s Cold I’d Like to Die - Moby

In my head I get that phone call. You took a blunt blow to the head and you bled out. A car ate your body. You fought. You didn’t. You drowned yourself. You struggled. You didn’t. They did everything they could but you were too tired of yourself to wake up. A knife was introduced to your aorta. Something like that.

Burial or cremation? “I’d be dead. I don’t give a fuck.” You take your one-hundred-and-sixty-two-millionth breath on this earth. Your heart beats for the seven-hundred-and-eighty-millionth time. Something like that.

“Buried, we visit you. Burnt, we scatter you.” In a Freudian tangle there is beauty in that thought, making you paper things to hang over your epitaph in summer. Jaywalking in your honour. Extending marriage counselling because I will always be swaying with you slowly, one brain fold yours forever. Something like that.

But for all the fucks you don’t give, there’s an unspoken fuck that you do. Nobody hears it because you are a cold woodpeckers’ branch and a locked museum. Something like that.

“Turn me into a rock…” The land slips, the branch bends and colours fall out. You are pressed to semidiamond and we can throw you to whatever corner of the earth you want- “and launch me into space.” My heart plays a game in my chest. Something like that.

I open my mouth but the land still powers down, things spill from you and it’s kind of a big deal. “In the general direction of Alpha Centauri. I might get there in a few million years. Something like that.”