Life After Death

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns.
-William Shakespeare, Hamlet, III,1
Elvis licks his lips and croaks like the toad of dispair and frustration. He arches his back and howls to the moon like so many of his ancestors. His cries are heard from the great beyond, the vast chasm of nothing. But nobody listens.

The Kings of Concept, too numerous to enumerate, live in unequaled luxury, both physical and ethereal. They lift the morning onto their backs and shout "Do you see this thing that is? Do you, all of you, get this thing?"

Who's been sleeping in my brain? Why Death of course...cold...cruel...heartless Death.