They

Imagine they find your bones in a boggy field - it happens all the time, speaking of which, time is your pocket handkerchief, your wristwatch, and your best evening pants all reduced to insect dust. Only a fragment (a rust-addled skimpy second hand) remains to be picked up by the pale flesh of a much more efficient brain than you or your many cousins ever had. The rest of you is much scattered, much distributed among the small bog dwelling children of lesser gods. Ten or a hundred years later they may find a distant tooth with its crown intact, later still, a being reports your broken jaw unearthed by the sludging rain. Will they then have enough of your head to commence a plaster likeness of your drunken grin after a cocktail party, or will they find the rest of your skull in a deeper layer of dirt with an old crack across its dome. Perhaps they will assume you died at the hands of an axe wielding foe, never guessing you fell heavily off your girlfriends Honda practicing one last incautious wheelie on a minor road in darkest Derbyshire? Will the few decimated parts of that Honda be thought to be a primitive metallic skeleton of an ancient sacrificial temple? When the elements finally reveal more fractured bits of you will an artificial intelligence reassemble your last moments while misinterpreting the age and time of your mediocre your life? Will they solidify your that life the way we reconstruct diorama’s of mastodon herds grazing in tall grass, while illustrating for dramatic effect, menacingly concealed packs of saber tooth tigers lying in wait. Be very sure to care of your wrist watch, for they who excavate your posterity will probably misplace your existence by at least ten thousand years, not that you, like the mastodons, will care, but they might.