Been thinking a lot recently about death. When someone dies, what do they leave behind? I mean, what I'm thinking and saying are nothing new, no great new philosophy, its all been heard before, but still I want to say it anyway. A lump of meat that quickly degrades into nothing, some personal possessions that are scavenged by the survivors, and memories that fade within a generation to nothing.

I have spent an unhealthy amount of time hanging around graveyards, looking at the stones, trying to work out who the names were. There is nothing to give it away. All of those lives, reduced to nothing more than a few lines on a stone, all of that knowledge, that experience, discarded. Sometimes a few days experience, sometimes less. Sometimes as much as a century of life, just thrown away. A hundred years is not enough. Two hundred is still too little. A millenium is too short. Some of the people buried under those stones, dead hours after they were born, deserved to live. Some of the people buried there, a century after they were born deserved to die. Who makes the choices? Random chance? Some great being?

Who will take responsibility for us foolish children?

Bunny