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