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When we die, we will not soar into the air, no light will carry us to heaven; we will simply fall apart, we will sink and never return.
In the passage, in the transformation, we will not remember anything of this thing called life; simply, little by little, we will instead be forgotten.
When we die, the Popol Vuh will not chant any celestial mantra for us; rather there will be the ebb and flow of a serene and enveloping ambient, a dense nocturnal tide that will console our silences.
We will not see our loved ones again, we will not touch the clouds with our fingers; simply Rosenthal's extenuating drones will lull our rest.
When we die, we will not walk barefoot in the meadows of a lush Eden; instead, we will be sitting still, observing for eternity a gigantic black monolith of blurred sounds that will swallow our memory.
And at the end of time, behind us, an electric violin will modulate beams of the purest white light; crystalline gusts will project onto the monolith the images of our earthly life. Only then will we see all the words we could say and have not said; all the things we could do and have not done; all the people we could be and have not been.
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