Embalming a dead body is a quiet instance, yet it has never been so silent for me. As the blade of my scalpel takes its first slice into dead flesh, I hear violins. I always have. Maybe it's the low, almost inaudible whir of the embalming machine that sends me into a dreamlike state, that provides a clear tunnel vision to the work I'm doing while still making me feel as though I am in the middle of a gorgeous symphony. Much like the workings of the violin, no two embalmings are ever the same, as no body is ever identical to the next. There is a story—a haunting yet simplistically beautiful process—to preserving a corpse. Like a song, a batch of notes thrown together in immaculate harmony, it is all temporary, yet carries the weight of the eternal, of the everlasting.
It is the greatest show to ever be put on, and it is all a glorious illusion.