A dead girl lies down in the coffin. For a minute she regains consciousness, but she could not move nor feel anything at all. Except for what arises when her whole life flashes before her: every experience, every mundane day, cold showers, hot showers, bitter food, stinky streets, loud neighbours. The good and the bad. Suddenly the nuances appeal infinitely better than they did before. For she thinks it's better to experience ugliness, bitterness, discomfort, than to not experience anything at all. She wishes she could be in a classroom again getting bored of the teacher's endless discussion. She wishes she could fight with her parents again, for it's better than never getting to utter a word to anyone ever again. She wishes that she's savored everything in her life, especially those that are considered unpleasant. But then she's found the irony of her feeling. She is conscious, once again, that she exsists, whether partly dead or somewhat alive. She could not move nor see nor taste nor hear nor physically feel, but she is aware. And that is experience in itself. She remembers everything again but differently this time. She wishes for nothing to have been different. She did savor everything. Every respond and reaction and tear and agitation and frustration and celebration was exactly how they should've been. For things only always go the way they should. She did live. Whether she lived poorly or nicely, she is unsure. But she knows she did live. And life was something. It was something alright.