In death, I'm a recyclable, my gut biome will gnaw its way out of me like Ripley's Alien - if on a microscopic scale. Agents of the Destroyer will turn my tissues into food bits to feed some other animal. Yes, I am inescapably animal - inescapably in transformation from living to not... This may seem morose, but is it? He who can imagine a dog cracking open his bones to eat away all the marrow -- without an inner cringe, or wince -- is a person who knows freedom.