I scatter some of his ashes from the remaining cliffs of the Ziegenfuss quarry where we used to swim as kids, converted to a landfill so that each time I visit more of it is buried, like the past slowly submerging, disappearing under rubble. Solid-looking shafts of sunlight like emissaries from the realm above lend the landscape's background a contrasting beauty, and the wind blows the ash back toward me as I kneel on the cliff's edge.

        Walking back home I pass through a slightly different part of the stone-masonry yard than usual to discover they've assembled a faux-cemetery yard, laid out like the real thing, showcase for headstones on sale, each one awaiting its customer/corpse, centers still smooth of particular names and dates, engraved only with arabesques, peripheral filigree and ornamentation. The place seems to speak to me like a hallucination, and I stop as though figuring life's riddle but only making half-sense out of anything.