I was thinking recently about a very close friend who died some twenty years  ago under arguably alterable circumstances. Drawn to a bit of text we both  enjoyed, I generated this bit of representation as evidence of my anger,  frustration, and continued devotion to his life and death. What follows (for  your convenience) is the text I've since rendered somewhat indecipherable in the  image. 

 "When you are taken unawares by an outbreak of fire or the news of a death,  there is in the first mute shock a feeling of guilt, the indistinct reproach:  did you really know of this? Did not the dead person's name, the last time you  uttered it, sound differently in your mouth? Do you see in the flames a sign  from yesterday evening, in a language you only now understand?" Walter Benjamin