Death is humiliating. It doesn’t seem like that nowadays when we go to music-filled funeral halls in suits to gather around the dearly departed. There the person lays, sometimes wearing perfume for the first time ever, seemingly asleep and no odor escaping their preserved body. The perfectly ironed suit, the cushioned coffin, the gilded gold and the deep cherry wood—all of it looks rather royal, presidential even. But somebody else washed that corpse, carted it around, ensured that it wouldn’t stink then propped it up for people to see: humiliating.
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