What if I die up here in this tree? he thinks. Will it serve me right? Why? Who will ever find me? And so what if they do? Oh look, another dead man. Big fucking deal. Common as dirt. Yeah, but this one's in a tree. So, who cares?

"I'm not just any dead man," he says out loud.

Of course not! Each one of us is unique! And every single dead person is dead in his or her own special way! Now, who wants to share about being dead, in our own special words? Jimmy, you seem eager to talk, so why don't you begin?

Oh torture. Is this purgatory, and if it is, why is it so much like the first grade?

in Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood
Imagem: Cig Harvey

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