by Mariah Rigg Fylkesarkivet i Vestland When I die, I want it to be in the middle of something. Facedown in my mashed potatoes. Shitting on the downstairs toilet. One leg in my pants. You’ll find me, collapsed in the middle of a moment you’ve already lived past, and somewhere, simultaneously, a parallel universe will cave in on itself. The one we could have lived in together. Gone, just like that. I imagine you grabbing something to steady yourself. A chair maybe. A bedpost.