Shitting my soul out at the end of my life. When you're born, you take
your first breath, and someone slips a soul tapeworm in you! Surprised,
you cry — before, you were living on life support, tubes and whatnot,
just a kind of zombie, in a coma in the womb, a comba...a zomba in a
comba in a womba. Then they snip you off, and the other Doctor, the
shadowy Doctor, he unrolls the rainbow tapeworm and holds its tiny
snapping snout out to you, and it slithers inside you and you cry.

Then, at the end of your life, the rainbow tapeworm, now exhausted of all
color, tiny, dried and shit-brown, dribbles unnoticed out your anus and
dries on the ground like a speck of brown rice. Look on the floor near
the deathbed — you'll certainly find it. That's all that's left of your
finite soul.

It's said that Sotheby's now and then conducts a secret auction in the
basement, and that during one such in 1957, a small smeary baby food jar
containing some rattling bits — the spent souls of Napoleon, Thomas
More, Anaximander, Democritus, Piero de Medici ("Il Gottoso"), Sampson
Reed, Diane de Poitiers, Suleyman, and St. Thomas.