The stench of my corpse steeped in coffee, marinating in coffee. When I die the spirits I've imbibed and the chemicals I've inhaled boar out of me. All of it. Souls of women emanating from my grave, like a great bent ghostly smoke stack. They declare themselves in the night sky, we the screaming souls who gave this man a piece of ourselves to be buried with, who wont let him keep it. When I die the pulp of my existence will flood the town streets. The width of the assailment like the girth of my indulgences. The duration, that of my long, long life. In returning what I've taken from the Earth in life, I will take twice that amount in death. Because you won't let me have it all.