What are these for, last rites? Rituals of confrontation? That stylise what is real into just enough regimentation and surreality that you can accept it? Dying people are minor characters in this endeavour. Devices for the traumas and resistances and redemption of the other characters. Like Diane Keaton’s mother figure in The Family Stone. A condition of the lives of others. Their loss and tragedy and the way life went on. I am re-reading Marge Piercy’s Body of Glass. Another minor character caught my attention. Gadi’s mother, dying of a mutated virus that is melting her bones, dying in a haze of drugs and agony. We read of her marginally, Gadi’s tragedy, his pathos, the anti-redemption of Avram, post-modern maharal, who would build a conscious weapon in his cyborg golem son. In my many previous readings, I did not take much note of Sara, this minor character. Until now, when I have become her. I resent any talk over my head as if I am not still here. But really, I am not still here for the purpose of this kind of narrative. Just a tautological remnant, an artefact of plot, but not a mainstay character. So last rites are not for me. Except this one I guess. I invented this to serve myself, wind down my own story.