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In younger days we are concerned with what death means for us. Live long enough and you see the scions of your childhood zeitgeist dropping like flies; their unique music going quiet, their collective perspectives too few to compete with the din of newer ideas. Our personal death becomes a generational concern; successive generations come and go, and are no more. What they all knew, what we miss because they are not here to shine their unique light, from their particular angle, on even common experiences, supersedes the self.
The morning moon rises to shine on us even through the day in times such as these, watching over our beloved dead.
