How many identical broken columns do you see? How many twin angels? How many draped urns? This is it. This is all there is to it, this death business. Mass-produced gravestones. Production-line death. Supermarket eternity. Buried in an alabaster ashtray. Look at all the bromides they chisel onto the stones: with Jesus, which is far better, too dearly loved to be forgotten, the gates of memory never close. Bullshit. You can hear the gates of memory banging shut all over this place. Your ancestors and mine are nowhere and unknown. Their graves, if they have them, are unvisited. They are done with. And so am I. You’ve passed on your DNA, to me, incidentally, so I shall spend it wisely. Your wretched spawn have stolen it all, and now you’ll shuffle off. And we’ll put you under one of these chainstore stones, and we’ll chisel some insincere bullshit into it, and once a year we’ll plonk some plastic flowers into these pen holders at your feet. It’s not dying that should worry you. It’s all the crap that comes after.