trampe videre inn i neste morgen

I think she cried at my funeral. It's not that I'm conceited or anything, but I'm pretty sure. Sometimes I can actually picture her talking about me to some guy she feels close to. Talking about me dying. About how they lowered me into the grave, kind of shrivelled up and pitiful, like an old chocolate bar. About afterwards the guy fucks her, a fuck that's all about making her feel better. 

Fra den lange novellen Kneller's happy campers av Etgar Keret.