The sorrow is too great. Too heavy. Better to curl in tight, tighter, tightest. Present nothing but the hardened outer shell that none can pierce, not even the sorrow itself. And then to sleep. Deep, deep sleep that may in time—in centuries, in ages, in eons—turn into longed-for death. Ah! Death! Death would be sweet, the sweetest of all blessings. Death would mean escape at last. And possibly . . . reunion? Yes, yes, let sleep turn to death, one sinking into the other. No more stirring. No more breathing. Just stillness, stillness, perfect stillness. But death will not come.
