Stop exaggerating

but "lavage" was in us—lavage—lavage—what a word, with lava in it—and that's—that's—it made you want to taste a picture of yourself, and it made you love the name Al, and until the word was done to us, until we were each other's canyon and coffin, we never would have thought about the ah in it, the humidity of that—would we have thought about that?—come on—come on—how?—we wouldn't've, couldn't've—come on—it's against the odds, a word going inside us that way when we were each and both re-cooled in the walk-in, and re-warmed near but not under the food-warming lamps which were amber—amber—no kidding—after death you stop exaggerating—and I wondered where was the cell, the shots we took, where was the dead trucker and what was The Product in her unit, and they repeated the process—lamps, walk-in, lamps—trying to save us--

The last things we said, in 57 Octaves Below Middle C by Kevin McIlvoy