There is a sort of warped nostalgia that follows the death of a loved one. As if, in the blink of an eye, an era is taken from us, never to be returned. To look back on such a time brings a sickeningly sweet feeling. A feeling that then, life was better. As opposed to now, when something has gone missing, never to return. One wishes to return to that time, not so long ago, when things were just a bit better. A time when one really didn't know how much a grandfather, an uncle, a mother, a child meant. A time when everything was in its place, and no one even noticed.

When a loved one dies, a peace no one knew existed is shattered. Waves resonate, like a boulder thrown into a tranquil pond. The death of someone dear changes us, pushes us to a new level of independence. We are not alone. Yet we cannot but feel lonely.

But what happens when the death is not a loved one. When the death is not a casual aquaintance, a coworker, a complete stranger on the other side of this colossal world. What happens when the death is our own?

Some may speak of dreams that follow death, but I see no dreams. I see no Heaven, no Hell, no Nirvana. I see no dreams, for now, I do not sleep. Nor do I walk, sigh, smile, or cry. I do nothing. I can do nothing. Nothing, but watch.

Time does not end for one death. Nor, apparently, do I.