two tales

When I die, I want to have subconsciously shared so much of myself with someone that they'd be able to write a book about what I was like, what my face became when I felt bored or disgusted or over the moon. I want someone to know all the ins and outs, how my face always found the crevice where the arm met the back of the couch when I napped, how I would get up in the middle of the night despite the cold if I could hear the shower dripping, how I preferred to sit facing the back on trains, how I hated my iPod to be set to shuffle. I don't know whether or not people memorise the details of those around them. It's what separates reality from fiction. Narrators in stories cannot get enough all that signifies less than nothing, and yet in reality when people die, those left behind kick themselves for not remembering their last hug, last kiss, last laugh. I want someone to look back and remember the things I did which made them want to flick me off the face of the Earth out of utter irritation, and the things I said which made them feel the way nobody ever could and ever would.