I keep cataloguing the dead who never asked to be watched

Last night I'm walking the grounds at the usual hour, but every headstone has a small camera bolted to it, blinking red. I know the job is maintenance, not surveillance, but I wake up with the feeling that the stones are the ones keeping track of me — that I'm the one eroding, slowly, and they're just noting it down. Lately I notice cracks everywhere, in the asphalt, in the plaster of my own ceiling, and I want to fix them all, but I can't even keep the moss off one name without the family coming by and asking why I touched it. Strange what your brain does with quiet.