I've always been a little obsessed with bones. I get distracted by the fact that I'm made of bones that I'll probably never see. They're so entirely personal and also so foreign, and it's seductive in a way that all of the blood and connective tissues aren't.
In Italy there are bones everywhere, in reliquaries and on walls, gilded and stuffed in nooks and frequently unidentified. They're just bones, detached from their flesh and their names and their histories. It seems unfair that people have been looking under that skin for so many years, that there's been so much light where light was not meant to go.
I can't decide if I would want my bones to remain on display after I'm gone, if I would want you to see them when I can't.