I am an autopsy waiting to happen.

Dear Stan Brakhage,
Hey man. What's up.
So. About that film you made. I never knew that my scalp could be folded over my face in order to more efficiently saw through my skull to retreive my brain from inside my head. My chest cavity can pop open like a tickle trunk with a few quick snaps of my ribs: that's an interesting tidbit, too.
I guess, after I'm dead, I really won't have any need of those gooey globs that previously forced fluids and pumped chunks of biological mass throughout my body, so they can get scooped on out at the leisure of my rubber-gloved coroner. Whomever that may be.
And really, throughout the whole process, it will be quiet, won't it? It will be even more silent than your documentary, because I could hear gasps and squeams around me while watching. It will be more silent than anything I can possibly experience while I'm still alive because I'll be dead and I'll just be a body to be sliced and diced and left to drain, emptied of any resemblance to a living person. I won't be planning my work schedule with my boss, I won't be washing my hair, and I won't be worried about assignments and writing this blog.
I'll be dead and it will be quiet and people can dig their paws right into my intestines and yank 'em the hell out.
And I never really thought of that before.

Love from Cali