found via weheartit
In a sea of shapeless, shadeless greenery, the brown box dropped slowly into a hole of oblivious existence. The finality in the wires creaking, the ropes itching and worldly physicality itself threatens to let the coffin drop with a disrespectful thud. But what is inside is not human. He is alien. He is a wax replica of the man I love - a filtered, massacred replacement to comfort my soul, and I must reject it. My attendance is merely symbolic; my mind is distantly near - Do you think that when people die, their corpses shrivel up because something beautiful has been forcibly sucked out of it? It's like the form itself suffers an inexplicable loss, so complicated and violent, like the shape has been raped and must be reassembled by human hands for the sake of soothing the human mind. We make, we exist, and we lose.
