We all got poetry and life is rich

Death? Oh. Aye. Uh. I disarm, ease the tension, bring the laughter. We both take a deep breath of this air thick and stilted with death-talk. I recount the cycles of atoms that started the research, disguising the root of all of this: my own grief. ‘I am the researcher of cycles of death and grief continually stuck in cycles of death and grief’ is perhaps not the best clearer of the air. It is only after the fact that this has all finally revealed itself. This work began with death, continued through deaths, and ends with life. Returning to the poetry of grief with tears running down my face: '[…] look back on these tears, also, which, stricken with love, I pour out in memory of you; this is all I can do, while my only wish is to mourn at your tomb and address these empty words to your silent ashes.'