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So, I've turned my toes up and melted into a puddle after getting a bucket of water thrown on me. What is left? Black and white stockings, the smell of roses, definitely not a fart, a soup for worms, an ever-changing caricature, and perhaps some historical remnants to be hacked to crap on a whim.

Hence my once peers hold seance and thusly summon "Deeeeee, Liminal Deeeeee, Are you there Liminal D?" I am there, like I am there now, wearing those black and white stockings and being played with by your exquisite neurons. I don't know how you got me into those leather hotpants... and glittery red nipple clamps? Really? I always knew this seance was just an excuse for a party.

Yeah, so err, perhaps some simulacrum and lingering memory is needed to invoke a conceit, facilitating our necromancer to cast-off some bothersome emotional and social constraints. There's spooky ol' me, acting the romantic prompt, maybe even the impetus toward something more sacred or elevating. Yet, however good I look in hotpants, upon death I'll only be a mere toy of yours. For a while, at least, I see little power or rest for me. Once direct sensuality becomes absent, who the fuck is anyone except the most complete plaything for the imagination.

To call forth this topic's transcendences, in case I really do turn up at the seance, I will most definitely full-on materialise in front of you, dancing pink tatters and percussive green bones, chattering "Okay, let's stop fucking about and go rattle the shit out of the chains of the living." I'll then proceed to accompany you, and not leave until all the fun was over. Although, knowing what I get like without sleep, you fuckers will likely soon wizard that clairvoyant into an exorcist.

"I forgive you... love and harmony... err... be excellent to each other... I told you it's roses..."

So, so, so faintly into the gloam, if you remember anything, remember this: Whether I want to be around after death, or not, is irrelevant. When I'm dead there's going to be a universal scramble for the energy I once held onto in life. Yet, be sure I'll not be wrestling that energy back. You can talk to me when I'm dead, know however it will be your phantasm and fantasy, and not mine. And when dry grief options you the easy self-sabotage or convenient transposed judgement, consider instead to make me good magic.