Where the dead are planted.
I was driving the other day and passed by a cemetery called Garden of Memories. The name disturbed me, but I didn't know why. I thought, "the literal side of me is trying to take over," and immediately said out loud, "where the dead are planted."
As I drove further, I realized it probably had more to do with therapy and trauma. I'm stuck living in a cemetery inside my head. Well, at least it's a garden. Weird how we try to make death look pretty.
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