The place outside the pale of human light, or life even, draws pain in those unfamiliar with such wastes. It’s why such subjects are taboo to speak of, or masked in myth and superstition. Yet the dead acknowledge these facts, as much the granite stone or the cold light of distant stars. At what point must the living confess mortality’s incessant demand of truth? At the point of shut down, when disease or old age rob us of our motivation to lie, and our tongues cease motion, while our eyes gaze far, and our loved ones look on, wondering where we’ve gone, before were really gone.