The poetry you could write about Rufus helping me out of my grave isn’t lost on me

No matter how we choose to live, we both die at the end.

Time doesn’t heal all wounds. We both know that’s bullshit; it comes from people who have nothing comforting or original to say.

No one goes on, but what we leave behind keeps us alive for someone else.

You're dead, and I'm the worst kind of alive.

I’d give in to the grief but make sure I wasn’t loud enough to draw attention from those who think words will make me feel better.

Then there’s the kind of zombie I’ve become now: the one who has lost everything—his brain, his heart, his light, his direction. He wanders the world, bumping into this, tripping over that, but keeps going and going. That is life after death.

But hey, if there’s one bright side to your dying, it’s that you aren’t around to tell me things I don’t like hearing. I’m sorry. That was a dickhead thing to say. I need a condom for my mouth.

I think we’re already dead, dude. Not everyone, just Deckers. The whole Death-Cast thing seems too fantasy to be true. Knowing when our last day is going down so we can live it right? Straight-up fantasy. The first afterlife kicks off when Death-Cast tells us to live out our day knowing it’s our last; that way we’ll take full advantage of it, thinking we’re still alive. Then we enter the next and final afterlife without any regrets