But I don’t have a map for whatever world lies beyond death. I don’t know whether there, too, there are meetings and partings, whether we still have faces and voices, hearts with the capacity for joy as well as sorrow.

I’m fighting, alone, every day. I fight with the hell that I survived. I fight with the fact of my own humanity. I fight with the idea that death is the only way of escaping this fact.

I wait for time to wash me away like muddy water. I wait for death to come and wash me clean, to release me from the memory of those other, squalid deaths, which haunt my days and nights.

After you died I could not hold a funeral, And so my life became a funeral.

Bearing that in mind, the question which remains to us is this: what is humanity? What do we have to do to keep humanity as one thing and not another?

If we’d been given a little more time, might we have arrived, eventually, at a moment of understanding?

How can anyone go up against a gun with nothing but an empty fist?”

When a living person looks at a dead person, mightn’t the person’s soul also be there by its body’s side, looking down at its own face?

Suddenly it occurs to you to wonder, when the body dies, what happens to the soul? How long does it linger by the side of its former home?