"What is flowing within it is everywhere Thought." – Rudolf Steiner

Sending papers for the dead

I am so terribly tired.

I’ve been spending the past few days talking to the US and German embassies in Tokyo, not to mention the Tokyo Police, trying to arrange things for Brian.

His parents have been dead for years, and he’s been on the road for a decade – I’m not even sure if anyone knew where he was until the end.

According to the officials, I don’t count as next of kin, since we weren’t married or otherwise related.  It’s not like we were even that involved, and it was only for a little over two years, but I very much want to do right by him.

I’ll pay the thousands of Euro for his cremation and shipment to the US, as long as I know that his life can be properly acknowledged, even celebrated, if by no one else than me.

I’m not sure if Susanna or Isabel even care at this point, but he had so many stories to tell about them, so much fondness and forgiveness. I don’t know how to contact them, or anyone else from that part of his life.

All he had was the streets, or the bedrooms of lovers and girlfriends, in whatever country would take him.  He usually blew up his bridges completely, never looking back, and I was treated no differently.

I felt different, however. I did my best to care for him unconditionally, to give him his dreamy, paranoid space when he needed it, and I could tell he appreciated it.

I can’t say if I was more special than the last girl, or the next one I’m sure existed.

When it comes down to it, however, none of them are looking after him now.  No one would be, if I didn’t speak up.  That’s so frustrating and sad to me.

I really appreciate Tokie and Die Database right now – they’re helping expedite everything.  Satomi didn’t press any charges, so the potential criminal investigation was brief.  She’s even trying to smooth out the situation with the U.S. Embassy, but I know that’s going to take a while to straighten up.

The autopsy has been sealed, for some reason, but knowing how he died isn’t as important to me as why – no report can reveal that to my satisfaction.

In the last week I saw him, when he was so terribly sick, he often ranted while feverish.  “Once I die, mix my ashes in paint, and mark the world with me, one little line at a time.”  He wanted me to help with his last work, spreading his tag one last time across the cities he once lived in, including München.

I don’t know if I can track down every wall and bench he visited, but I do want to give it a shot in the park next to the Isar, where we met.  I want to walk out in the daylight, and slowly spread his art’s blood.

He also told me the particular design he wanted – he drew it on a page ripped out from the tiny spiral-bound notebook he always carried.

I don’t understand what it means.  I don’t have to.

I just need his spirit to guide my hands, and bring forth the last light from his eyes.

I didn’t take him seriously on his false deathbed, but now – I’ll do whatever I can to make things right.

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