Dying

I wonder what would happen if I died. I imagine it sometimes. I’m driving down the road and maybe I’m a little sleepy or angry or sobbing or something and then it happens. My hand slips. If it happens, I hope my car doesn’t get banged up too badly though. I hope it’s preserved. Because, at my funeral, I want them to know what song I was listening to at that last second of my life. Most of all, I want it to be a good song, and I mean a really good song. Like one of those timeless ones that everyone loves, or at least some people do. I want my very best friends to make a speech about that song, and how it relates to me in some way, or that it was the perfect tune to end it all with.

Not that I want to die. In fact I’m quite happy most of the time, or at least as much as the next guy. I just think about these things sometimes. There’s nothing wrong with that, right? I mean, why do we always have to think everything’s flowers and daisies? Sometimes I think about corpses and sharp things and bombs because there’s just as much of that as there are the good things.