Mushrooms and rot as psychopomps. Flies and worms and vultures, heralds of the life after this one. Scavengers which bring our buried bodies back to the dirt it came from; the unification through the mycelium, through the digestive tracts of countless thousands of insects, through the decaying into the soil from which flowers and fruit will be grown. Death is a process of dissemination of your last piece of identity, transforming you into everything except that. The soil in your yard is made of other people and such. We exist walking upon our afterlife. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that enough to believe in?
Your loyalty is not to me but to the stars above
