Death is cast in mystery, a theme of mystery, an equivocal shroud that passes over the living; but not a subject that looks like it is ever getting cleared up. Rather it is a mystery increasing, and always encroaching. Death is pervasive; for it is not just that we all die, but that we all also don’t die, while we are alive. But we witness other people dying, that’s all we do in regards to death. We are watchers. That’s how pervasive death is, cutting two ways. The subject is not closed, or even partially dealt with, by pointing out that it is simply everyone’s fate to die. For meanwhile, everyone also lives in a world with death around them, it being equally a fate, as I say, to live with death. So one is always alive–that is my experience. When I compare myself with, well, some people who are actually dead, I have to ask, what has happened to them? All we can establish is their stunning absence, from our lives. I do not recognise anything else, that I might use, for instance, to apply to myself. We can’t say that something like death is in store for us, such that we really understand what has happened to the already . . . dead. For surely, we don’t know what has happened to them, nor what is in store . . . unequivocally, for us. Both deaths, yours–if you are slated to join that strangest gallery–and mine, so far away, are mysteries. And the question is: are they part of the same mystery?