Can I ask you a question?
“You just did.”
You got me.
“I love that one. You were saying?”
So–and tell me if I’m out of line asking–what’s it like being dead?
“The fuck should I know?”
Because you’re dead.
“Not currently. As pictured, I’m very nearly dead, certainly, but not entirely dead.”
“Don’t get me wrong: I am shovel-ready. But not dead.”
But all of you exist all at once.
“Oh, sure. Time beads off our skin like shit off a koala’s ass-fur–”
“–but you’re speaking of existence, brother. And existence precludes comprehension of non-existence. We can describe it, but never understand it. It’s like how the Pythagorean theorem proves out to infinite dimensions: there’s a shitload of hypoteni out there, but our brains can only handle the one, dig?”
“All consciousness is the result of a couple watts of worth of juice skipping around your brain. Death is the cessation of electrical activity. That’s it.”
That’s it? No heaven, no hell?
“Oh, plenty of those. You see ’em before you croak, though.”
“Don’t mock me. You’re the one talking to the dead guy on a Saturday night.”