Pity the Living, Indeed
Just a tiny piece I wrote when I realised something at a funeral
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 o...
