I can't hold dead things for too long. They slip into the waste of my gravitational pull and become space debris floating around my fat body.

They decompose around me, the odor becomes a new wall. I am becoming the past.

During the day, my barrier of broken bones collides with my meaningless nature. I am only human after all. And my humanity wanes in the winds of disintegrating calcium and the taste of dead skin.

It feels sometimes like I can see clearly, when the dead come to life and dance in familiar patterns. They are wrapt in their skin again, they've left impressions of the underside of their heel as the ridges of my brain.

My body falls in line, I forget who I am and the revived carcasses play out daydreams from the darker corners of my mind. For the moment, there is nothing else. I cease to exist, I am only as real as the memories that got me here.

Then suddenly they stop. They die once more.

As they fall to the floor the process begins again. My eye line is cluttered with corpses, slowly putrefying until the trumpets call and raise them for another dance.