True, it's strange to dwell on earth no longer, to cease practicing customs barely learned, not to give roses and other things of such promise a meaning in some human future; to stop being what one was in endlessly anxious hands, and ignore even one's own name like a broken toy. Strange, not to go on wishing one's wishes. Strange, to see all that was once so interconnected now floating in space. And death demands a labor, a tying up of loose ends, before one has that first feeling of eternity. But the living all make the same mistake, they distinguish too sharply. Angels (it's said) often don't know whether they move among the living or the dead. The eternal current bears all the ages with it through both kingdoms forever and drowns their voices in both, diorama, 70mm photo, cinematic lighting, clarity, postprocessing, foreshortening, --uplight --stop 85 --w 6000 --h 4000