by Jo Gatford Sardar Faizan This is not the type of wake where someone gives a speech, even once everyone has a drink in their hand. There will be no polite tapping of a spoon against glass. There are no good stories besides the ones that end with yelling or a hangover or both, and so the same low conversations shuffle around the room instead. Empty stuff about stardust; about us all returning to the sky when we’re gone; about matter. As if it matters—ba-doom-tsch. As if the