are they nothing at all, the cries of men? does nothing happen in time but time passing? -nothing happens, only the flickering eyelid of the great sun, hardly a movement, nothing, the unredeemable boundaries of time, the dead are all pinned down by their own dying, they cannot die again of another death, they are untouchable, locked in their gestures, and since their solitude and since their dying this only they can do: stare sightless at us, their death is simply the statue of their life, perpetual being and nothingness without end, for every moment is nothing without end, a king of fantasy regulates your pulse and your last gesture carves an impassive mask and lays that sculpture over your mobile face: we are the monument raised to an alien life, a life unlived, not lively, hardly ours.