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   ooooo   ooooo  .oooooo.  oooooooooooo       HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #602
   `888'   `888' d8P'  `Y8b `888'     `8
    888     888 888      888 888             "Words That Rhyme With Shed"
    888ooooo888 888      888 888oooo8    (for the corpses I've yet to know)
    888     888 888      888 888    "
    888     888 `88b    d88' 888       o      by Asthray Heart [5/6/99]
   o888o   o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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        When you die -- and you will die, not now, perhaps, but soon -- you
 will find yourself in a tunnel.  Not a train tunnel with a bright holy
 light at the end the way some people claim -- that is dukkha; illusion.
 No, it will be a dark moist tunnel with no beginning and no end.  It will
 have no color, but you will see it as pink, and it will ooze around you and
 close in around your head and hands.  It will be as though you are crawling
 inside a giant hermaphroditic worm.  You might find this odd.  Odder still,
 though, is that you somehow managed to escape or forget this abode in the
 first place.  It is not, as the Catholics wish to believe, dust from which
 we come.  We do not rise from dry filth.  It is moisture that feeds us; we
 are bags of wetness sealed in dead wrappers.  After life, when we no
 longer partake of ourselves, we see ourselves peeled, bereft of all the
 coverings and ruses we concealed ourselves behind.  Life returns to life as
 life absorbs life.

        When you are dead, you will hear a sound, the sound of a million
 bats flying out of your ears.  And perhaps you will feel frightened, and
 think to yourself "Surely this is the sound of death."  But you will be
 mistaken, for it will be the sound of life that you hear, the drone that
 rumbles beneath everything under the sky, even now, but which you do not
 hear, because you are part of it, because your body and soul screams with
 the bats at every fire of a synapse.

        But as you are in the tunnel, moist globs will come up to you and
 attach themselves to you, spread themselves across your belly.  They will
 dry out, leaving brittle whisper-thin husks that nonetheless feel as though
 they were a warm caring head nestled against your chest.  And the globs
 shall come up to you; by the millions they shall arrive.  And as they
 arrive they shall drain the fear from your limbs and the sound of bats from
 your ears, and they shall form a soft white crust around you.

        After a time, this crust shall take itself apart, inch by inch.  It
 will re-liquefy, float and seep back into the heaving tunnel walls.  And,
 like a magic box, it shall leave behind nothing in its wake.

        You will have returned.

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 [ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!  #602 - WRITTEN BY: ASHTRAY HEART - 5/6/99 ]
