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At the Round Earth’s Imagined Corners The dead in their coffins can’t get out. Can’t go to Heaven. Can’t go to Hell. Can’t go to lunch. Can’t go to Philadelphia. If we dumped their coffins in the river they could paddle like mad downstream and rest under the dark muscles of the sea. Some would steer better than others. Some would turn over in the rapids. But you can’t kill the dead. The ones who lost their boats in the rapids would just have to walk the rest of the way, scaring the bejesus out of anybody who happened to be fishing along the river. No, you can’t kill the dead. That’s why we shouldn’t confine them in coffins and make them wait aeons until some lazy angels blow rusty trumpets, trumpets the dead in their coffins probably won’t be able to hear anyway. Maybe the angels are asleep. Or maybe it was all a lie in the first place and there aren’t any angels with trumpets. So what about the poor gullible dead waiting in those cramped spaces for something that’s never going to happen? It’s the final indignity after all the others. 10 Let them out, I say, let them out! Let the dogs bury their bones. Let them run through the streets gibbering about how bad life treated them. Let them shove their stumps in our faces and offend us with the smell of their flesh. Then maybe we will realize we are mortal. Then maybe we will stop killing one another. 11 ...

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