From nowhere we come; into nowhere we go. What is life?  It is the flash of a firefly in the night.  It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.  It is as the little shadow that runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.

Crowfoot, Blackfoot Tribe, last words


I know that I am only going to a graveyard, but it’s a most precious graveyard.

Dostoyevski, The Brothers Karamazov. V, 3.


Tell ye your children of it, and let your children tell their children, and their children another generation.

 Joel 1: 3.