How to bury an Exquisite corpse

Dirt right? But how can the soft crumbling of the dirt ever cover a wound so big? The raping gash left behind that inspired the same reaping of our Mother by those mother frackers? I don’t believe there’s enough dirt left to do so. What else?

Clay? It’s gotta be clay. The brittle clumps of mass would shatter against the very foundation if fallen on. If a fist and a table couldn’t withstand the pressure, clay certainly won’t No, no, try again.

Sand I bet... Ya, sand. Ah, knowing the deepness of the wound, and the pressure of the foundation, maybe the glass formed would contain it, but what happens once it see’s it’s reflection in the glass? The glass will surely shatter, allowing for more self mutilation taught by their better.

No, the correct answer is time. Time is how you bury a corpse so exquisite you fear to name it. But you don’t want the correct answer, that never suited you. No, you want the one that lets you continue to sit and fester with that corpse. You want to increase those wounds, you want to further the pressure, you want to have more of a reason. You want more than anything to pause time, and revel in those moments. Revel in those pains, those hurts. You want to relive every gash and wound that you foolishly call love. You want. but fortunately for us, we don’t get what we want.

The marching continues, and with it, will come the final fading glimpses of what was once, quite the exquisite corpse.