... I get there to identify the body. It's him; the magus of the north, the lively soul, dead, lying still in the rain, shining with his fading smile. I asked them to bury his piano with him, but they laughed. "the coffin is too small for it", they said. "What about a copy of Musicophilia?" I'm about to ask, but I stop. No one cares about Oliver Sacks around here, neither do I anymore. All I know is that God hiccuped when he triggered the gun, jumped off the cliff, or droned into his own blood in the bath tub. Was he listening to a favorite piece? or he didn't even care? His eternal music, nevertheless, has been chosen: Dance Macabre, sung by joyous worms and hungry beetles...
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