Lay me among the tombstones, for I've a tale to tell, when all the salt-eyed mourners have left behind a part of their bereavement to be drawn, by slow gravity, down to hell. There they fuel the blazing hearts of the unquiet damned in their infernal dance, and I would whisper into those nether regions the burdens of my soul, that tattered and worn thing, as thin and threadbare as a pale shadow in the gloaming, for there is an audience that will never hurl any abuse at you, nor give back any criticism either harsh or well-meaning. The dead, the silent dead, can only take, and I have so few memories left to pour down to them as my libation.
Was it on the shores of that quiet lake, where I first met you; or was it in the alley behind the theater, rank and sweaty with you clawing at my back; was it in the lunch hall at school, when your leg brushed mine; or was it beneath that tree, where we pointed out where our erstwhile lovers had carved our names; was it flattened between the pages of the book you gave me, to fall fluttering out when I opened it another year; or was it in the dusty space, where your picture used to dwell. Well, nevermore. I'll drown in Lethe before I utter your name again, and if you seek me look no more than for a trail of bottles, which follow me like breadcrumbs down to hell.