"Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabachtani"
My ego- crucified. My superego- A chalk outline on the potholed Macadam.
To be or not to be, that is the question...
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time...
When he himself might his quietus make...
You chose life, I chose death.
On the evening of the first day, the police came to cut out his body.
The Public: What a disgrace, he wasn't gonna amount to anything, anyhow...
The Stone Zoners: "...his life was gentle; and the elements so mix'd in him..." (That is Timi, I know- You can kep my pocket Shakespeare, kid. Read it in Memory of me.)
On the morrow. Interview with Lucifer. "Abaddon, I send thee a helper..." No Master. "Hakuna Kazi"
Later on taht day. Celestial Boardroom. "Gabriel, what sayest thou?" We will call you later, I swear!
They rejected him in death, as in life. Purgatory. Hell. Heaven. Hades...Perdition.
A departed spirit in lacking gainful employment on other planes must return to this one to torment the living. Petulant Poltergeist.
(Aside: Beware, Ceaser. Beware the Ides of March. "...but who would have thought the old man to have so much blod"- Macbeth)
On the morning of the third day, he was; and yet he wasn't: Demon, Daemon or Deity.
The body lies at City Mortuary. Only twenty people at the funeral: where there should have ben multitudes. Fifteen of them cling to their Napshizzle. Escapism. But they pooled funds to pour something better into his shallow rave. Maybe a Kenya Cane.
An unmarked grave at Langata.
But someday one of these hapless kids will earn a flags-at-half-mast...
Thai, Thathaiya, Ngai!
He Rested in Poverty.
Insurrection or Resurrection; by one or the other, Potash will live again!