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But what about after you die? Soul aside (such a large word for all this), what about the peculiar kinesthesia when you touched his body and heard electronic music of the spheres, roses blossoming off each finger’s alight? What about your sister’s voice, serious as sin, saying she does not want you to end up in hell? Her aching brown eyes, the bridge of her nose a paradise of freckles. What about all of the words, the pages of sounds, each image burning with your scent? Even those, reckoned by fire, by your own failure to last.