New York, May 2020
If, from my ashes, surreptitiously scattered in the park, dumped into a sound or an ocean, Czechoslovakians might be born, we could then possibly transcend, finally, nation-states on our paper holograms. That the land instead become Central Europe, the Balkans Southeast Europe, no longer Balkanized. Not or but and. Turtles do not reincarnate; they simply keep on living. Trudging their beds from Dhakar to Berlin, fine-tuning the difference between their RAM and their hard drive. An order of passing.