Death has never been particularly interesting. I prefer the ocean depths or night sky to feel unwieldy. I have never wanted what was beyond death, except for the dust of it, to become a material. A fine grain of something. A thing the wind could truly lift. And to be disparate for once, and whole. To be in the sea and on the oak leaves. To be breath inside all the bodies and to be unseen and slipping through all of those hands, toward the light and away from the light, free of the face of the body.
Andrea Rexilius, “Part One: Séance/A Critical Theory of Grief Sensations,” from New Organism. In Timber, Volume 2, Spring 2012.