my Cemetery

Yesterday I heard a conversation behind my back. It was very ordinary and dull. Just more gibberish from stupid humans. I was cleaning my shovel, was sniffing the smell of hexane and was trying not to comprehend the general sense of this conversation. By the way, I am a very neat person. I hate the slobs and loafers because chaos and bumble are the signs of life! Meanwhile, the ideal order is the prerogative of death. That is why a shovel must always be clean…

‘I fear to walk in the cemetery’, the first voice said unexpectedly.
‘But I like this!’ the second voice answered.

I turn. The room is empty. Only my old ATT-8509 is snapping. (Of course, I require a new model but I prefer the good old things.) Hmmm… As always, the voices tend to vanish and do not respond in their own words… The happy voices! They have a choice. I do not have it because a cemetery is part of me. No! Because I am part of a cemetery… Hell! Bloody pragmatics! I cannot find an apt definition!

Every morning I walk along the alley with the tombstones into my new day. Every evening I stand near my graves. Near my own graves. I like to reread my favorite and funny epitaphs.

‘She was crying when somebody was telling insults to her.’

‘She was wasting an immense amount of effort for the sake of awkward attempts to be good for all.’

‘She was practicing self-loathing and was considering this a right thing.’

My poor girls… My dear graves… Fortunately, now I do not have a lot of worries with them. But I am cleaning my shovel and peering inside myself every day. I am keeping my ideal death order.

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