Predictions on the Death of a Modern Artist

Written between tracks 9 and 13 on 1/11/09
They say the countdown begins now

The artist died in an amoral fashion. Overdose, suicide, murder and an inability to cross the proper one-way street all potential answers to the question of why such an inevitable act occurred. The dearly bereaved then quickly fell into place; going to work, tearing themselves apart in thick saucepans or finding that special kind of seclusion in one of many boxed-in guestrooms; such dire activities being the only way for them to handle such an expected tragedy.
Still others, more particularly the women in the artist's life, bought dresses with matching handkerchiefs and insisted on claiming that the mediocre times were, in all reality, now because of recent developments, in fact the good times. They then took part in clever indulgences; hiccups registering on foreign radar machines as information of arrangements were soon relayed across multiple cluttered desk tops.
Text messages of condolences and online sentiments to the recently deceased were sent via satellite as last gasp attempts to converse with the stiff and colorless.
The service was then full of barricades, for those holding flowers plucked meticulously from their dyed and speckled hair and placed on the closest stone.
The eulogy called for a return to basics, to a time when the line between childhood, life, death and adulthood didn't seem so transparent. These were of course the artist's words, read by the hired preacher for a confused atheist's found farewell.
The dinner was infused with catered delicacies that only further helped to soak up the alcohol and smoke, spilt and filtering on carpets and through long vacuous hallways.
There was no discussion of favorites nor compiled treatments of the artist's work. Loose-leafed attempts were found and discarded of along with reel-to-reel failures of heart and mind, and spacey canvases splattered with the remains of some indiscernible and barely lingering posthumous emotion.
Next of kin were informed unaware of the blood coarsely running through their veins; the subsequent inheritance and rights soon being pawned for diluted favors and better ways to help pass the time.
Purchased items sat on shelves before eventually decomposing; brown cardboard boxes full of reminders dedicated to a day and time, soon seasonal examples of clutter, meant to be discarded of with other obsolete technologies and faded mementos.
Eventually even the wandering and curious eye lost its motivation to dig just deep enough to taste the soil above surface, and so those who remembered quickly forgot to spread the individual pieces out on their dining room tables before the big game. Instead they simply decided to use the rusted change from their heavy pockets to fill in the blanks and loosely hope that all would strategically balance out once the final electronic lights singed their fingers and went out.