Living is to gorge ourselves at our own wakes.

Bones seven years in the ground, and I've half a mind to dig them up. You were sick of lying still when we put you there. I'll wear your keys at my hip, prop you up against your stone and feed you whiskey and words, let life splash past your teeth and over your ribs as the smell of death barely manages to confront the back of my throat, I'm so used to it now. You've done the same for me. And my worthless bones prop no better than yours. A cough and a clack of a ghost of a tongue, and you'll speak. Although you cursed me for it, I would remind you that it was you who taught me that there were gods, and that they had names. So. Who are the gods that you now know? With whom have you been drinking, besides me? It's gossip I want. Gossip, names, signs, sigils, and a good map.