talk about what heaven's like: time folded over on itself eliminating all moments but the following: a nearly empty, silent train car on a morning that is not hot or cold with the sun in your eyes; pissing in a large quiet bathroom at a terrible party; staring at the mess on the floor from your bed at 6:57 before your alarm goes, sound smoothed out by the hum of a fan; walking down an unimportant side street alone on a summer night; driving on the Merritt Parkway at midday and you're very early to wherever you're going; perpetually conscious enough to appreciate your unconsciousness, clothes fitting just so but no one's looking which is so nice

talk about what dying is like: what's going on? what's going on with a line over the last number after the decimal point to indicate repeating

talk about what being dead is like: everything doubles in size and what what you did becomes so ensconced and entrenched as to be gospel, every nightmare scenario you tried to prevent is unavoidable, but of course you can't do much of anything anyway, because you're dead and the dead don't tell tales so you have to become ok with being dead and being immaterial and not being watched (which it turns out is really fine anyway) and being in heaven (which is rather nice too)

the dead throw away their old clothes and hide their old notebooks and pare everything down to their bare essentials

"We shed as we pick up, like travelers who must carry everything in their arms, and what we let fall will be picked up by those behind. The procession is very long and life is short. We die on the march, But there is nothing outside the march so nothing can be lost."

not so, not so, and some times it's good to forget where you left your keys