I will be sold upon my death, the contract's final, signed and binds perception of my life to who i'll be when i have died.
They will auction off my memories for which they pay the price of grief, to take home a nice piece of me, lower in, and let me sleep.
But i know before i say goodnight that some of me won't sell.
All those unknown unbought memories will be all that can tell.
Of what's beyond what was perceived of me, and they'll sing separate symphonies, but by that time they're just antiques, and im halfway to hell.