Death is a day trip. I drowned myself in the river and then got bored of it. One can only spend so long small talking with murk. My dreams, my firm works, my honey and bread. It is time to dine again. Enough fucking around. Watch now, as I emerge fully dry from the water that could not stomach me, my mouth ablaze with aphids and blue moths, my fresh deerskin dress. There is no myth here. Only the fact of my body warming as it walks forth into the clearing. Tell me again, the name of your god.
