Mausoleums stand, the size of shopping malls, concrete mounds for a thousand common dynasties. The motorways mown between are pockmarked with the angry divits of grieving mourners, blown like Kleenex down corridors of grief. Night and day, they process past the great domes of demise, fat with the bodies of their own blood and the shared artery of buried wars. The screwed up faces of the destitute mirror the crushed tissues in their wet pockets – inscrutable, closed, condemned. Finally, the avenue of mausoleums forks, as if two deviant moles had parted ways acrimoniously, continuing their regular eruptions on stubborn new maps, forging an underground necropolis of split seams. In the tongue between these divergent courses other grave markers rise, a field of skyscraper crosses, towering records of the dear departed.
Stepping off the broad avenues of the cemetery paths and wandering into their marble spores, the mourner is lost amongst endless inscription, as if the shorthand of humankind has finally been transcribed in its entirety - the unstoppable typewriter of a global secretary laid to rest by the dismembered corpse of her soldier groom.