The songwriter dreams desperately:
On the very day I die
The very last of my desires
Is that you take my broken body
And commit it to the fireAnd then when the fire is finished
Scrape the ashes in a tin
Take them down to London’s drinking reservoirs
And throw them inAnd then specks infinitesimal of my mortal remains
Will slide down seven million throats and into seven million veins
And I will creep through their capillaries to the marrow of their bones
And they will wake to bright new mornings and then wordlessly they’ll knowThat I remain
I am remembered
To remain, to be remembered is a desire common among humanity; to cease to exist, to be forgotten, a common fear. It is why grand monuments and grimy bathrooms from ancient Pompeii to modern New York are etched with our names. We are compelled to make a mark, however crude and small, that says, “I was here” because the alternative, “I am no more,” is too terrible to bear.
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