DNA I have begun to wonder about my human print. The impression I will inevitably leave on this earth when I no longer live here. What will they make of my 3 years worth of chronologically filed Vanity Fair magazines? Or the rotting broccoli in my crisper drawer? What will they find under my fingernails and in the contents of my stomach? Will my body speak of my last moments? Will they know the truth?
All the things you touch. Traceable.
What if I died today? Among stacks of coin by the safe in the backroom, slumped. Would it be foul play or accident? Or will my pesky heart just finally stop? They'll have to dust the safe and all the money. My desk's contents will be brought into custody for analysis. The staple won't co-operate until they tell him the paperclips already gave him up.
Bits of your life like spokes in a wheel. Spinning. No traction. All the things you do will be noted.
I will be the case they never solve. I will be the remains they fail to identify. I will be the whisper left in a cold backroom.