as one gaddafi tries to flee his fate. as one gaddafi's spit can still be tasted in the mouths of the people. the spit of ruthlessness and triumphant delusion. a fanfare of trumpets. a caldron of notes and sunglasses."just make sure you empty the spit valve".
it's a weird thing, a dead man. the same amount of mass. the same mouth, just without words. the same hands, just with no iron first. the same person, really, as you or i, with no difference between our life and theirs in give or take 70 years. just promise you won't put me on a mattress in a meat-packing freezer and show me off to the peoples. i wonder if the trumpets were still playing then.
"a live body and a dead body contain the same number of particles. structurally, there's no discernible difference. life and death are unquantifiable abstracts. why should i be concerned? - dr. manhattan
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