It’s the little things you remember when you die.

The children. The moments. Your face after

achieving multiple simultaneous orgasms. The orgasms.

The presidential campaigns, the incipient volcano

underlying the western half of the continental U.S.

It’s the little things that make you wonder.

I played identity politics with God, and earned a nod.

Activism: the important thing is you were there.

Among the first things I said to God was that

we have a right to continuous ownership of overlapping

sets of clothing (cf. Derek Parfit’s *Reasons and Persons*).

The last things I said to God was that I was there,

I was, the signal, decaying across space according to a formula,

is accompanied on the piano by centenarian Ivan Morevitz,

who deserves a hand for his miraculous resistance to


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