The Endless Hallucinatory Love of the Riders at The Long Point of Death

This is the story of a story about grief

It was a long time ago, but I can remember it quite clearly.

My partner and I had recived a call over the radio and directing us to where we are needed. We travel on horseback and our drone watches over us.

The ride is long and so I have time to think. I think about how we have set off from the centre of the continent, and how all of our journeys come through this point, and how state lines have changed over those journeys and how we have passed through riots and forest fires and now whole areas are unpassable and we must travel around them.

We arrive at out destination and meet the human and the animal that we have been called upon to care for as they die. We sing songs, and cook food, and we cry.

When they pass, we build a coffin for both which we engrave with beutiful designs and burn everything else. We start the return journey, dragging the coffins and take drugs so we do not need to sleep.

When we are only a few miles from the centre, we stop to rest at a building I recall used to be a pig sanctury.

In the morning we carry the coffin to the final site, a fenced in woodland that I remember once used to be a body farm for the study of decomposition.

We disassasemble the coffins and rebuild them as an alter.

As the sun begins to go down I notice the carrion animals approaching, and tell my partner that it is time to leave, we pack our tools, mount the horses, and head back out the way we came in.

As we reach the road it is almost dark, and a call comes over the radio telling us where we are needed. Under the light of the drone we take the turning off the road and start out.

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