It's not hard. I'm lying like a schlemiel in an inexpensive coffin of warped, bleached, knotty lumber - in short, a pine box. They're wriggling and squirming, they're searching for something to eat, something nutritious and nourishing. They smell here, they smell there, nibble a piece here, a piece there. Like an old baked apple.
Every bite produces nausea, dizziness, wind, lose of appetite.
I'm left in peace. Now the scene shifts to J. P. Morgan's grave. A box of delicate wood, of sensitive fibre, of finest grain. A corpse that's radiant with freshness and richness and succulence - summers in Bar Harbor, winters in Palm Beach. In short - stuffed kishke .