I often think life is just a performance. None of this is real. It’s a pretense at reality, that’s all. Only when someone, or something, we love dies – do we wake up from the play – and see how artificial it all is – this constructed reality we inhabit. We suddenly realize that life is in no way lasting, or permanent; no future exists – and nothing we do matters. And in desolation – we howl and scream and rail at the heavens, until, at some point, we do the inevitable: we eat, dress, and brush our teeth. We continue with the marionette - like motions of life, however unhinged it feels to do so. Then, ever so slowly, the illusion takes over again – until we forget that we are actors in a play. Until the next tragedy strikes – to wake us up.