Dead people are queuing up everywhere.
Some of the famous dead are queuing up in front of public buildings. They are queuing up in front of airports, toll gates, and park entrances. They are queuing up with the hope of these places being named after them.
Some of the not so famous dead are also queuing up. They look the most hassled. They keep shifting from one queue to another. First they join the queue of their ancestors in front of their homes, then they join the queue of their dead colleagues and friends in front of their workplaces, and finally in desperation, they queue up in front of mortgage loan counters. Everywhere they go, they realize that they are fading away from memories of the living as the forces of irrelevance seek to scatter them away in the name of maintaining order in living minds. They are howling.
The other famous and not so famous dead who are sensible are also queuing up. They are queuing up in front of trees far from the places with their traces. They seek a place in these trees free from hope, dejection, and betrayal. And there are not many such trees.