You’re old and bearded, frail and weak. You’ve teeth that are rotting, and a smile that ruptures your skin. You dress royally, a cross-dressing ballet dancer that’s grown old, but never lost the spirit of the dance. You sing and shout merrily, dancing atop rooftops with the glee of a five year old, echoing the spirits you inspire. The saddest thing is, however, that you’re long dead and buried. Lying meekly in a soaked grave, your skeleton has turned into bones that could belong to anyone. That, my dear saint, is the bare truth. Perhaps, however, that truth isn’t actually a bad one. Perhaps it’s not something to cry and weep about, and perhaps it’s a cause for celebration. Perhaps we should all be grinning with happiness. You see, thanks to you we’ve learnt: the bones can belong to anyone. And anyone, everyone, can claim them as their own.