A corpse could never squeeze through such a hole.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but we enter the world through a hole.
If we wish to gain access to existence, we have to push through our mother’s sex, or slip through a horizontal slit cut in her belly.
What’s weird is that when we leave the world, when God pushes us out of the world, there is no hole.
There’s a clearly marked entrance, but not a discernible exit.
Though maybe we haven’t been looking hard enough and there’s a hole we all go through when we die.
This hole might be infinite, or at least capacious. Its dimensions could be similar to a regular manhole you see in the street, its edges slick and stained with souls. But I think it must be very small, this hole in the world, which would explain why we’ve overlooked it.
It’s probably the size of a keyhole. If we found this hole, we could all line up and take turns peering through it, to catch a glimpse of death, to see what the dead get up to.
Perhaps it’s more like the aperture in a microscope or a kaleidoscope. When you put your eye up to the hole, you will be able to examine the minute, whirling facets of death, death’s shifting black patterns; not death itself, but its prismatic reflection.
Or is it an opening whose circumference is too narrow for us to see anything? A hole as impenetrable as a period that puts death to a sentence, tiny and foul as a hummingbird’s asshole. Look all you want, the eye won’t fit in this death hole; it refuses the eye.