The thing about funerals is that it's not only the poor bastard on the casket who looks dead.

As you reach out to grab the crying son's shoulder or the wailing husband's hand, you see the hollows in their cheeks and their ashen faces and feel skin unnervingly cold from the twenty-year-old air conditioners whirring in the background.

You see how screwed up everyone is, how the hundreds of tears they cried have taken half of their own lives away and have left hollow little shells that everyone cluelessly pities.

And you look at the casket and see that eighty-year-old with pounds of makeup on and a mouth sewn shut and a body full of sickly sweet smelling fluids to keep the stench of reality away and realize they're the ones who look the liveliest, who have it better off than everyone else.