I can walk through a cemetery with little emotion. It is just corpse storage.
When I lose my keys, the last place I go to find them is where they are.
When you die you become the lint on your old bedsheets. You become your deployed airbag and torn upholstery. You become your bedroom. Or you become a tiny sign on the side of a road.
Sometimes when you die you sit inside someone else’s chest. You move some furniture in, rearrange the place. Make it crowded. You maybe try to speak to them, put your hands on their lungs in a gesture of empathy, but it just makes it harder for the air to get in.