"Man cannot possess anything as long as he fears death. But to him who does not fear it, everything belongs. If there was no suffering, man would not know his limits, would not know himself. "
Lev Tolstoy

The old mill down by the river burned the other day, and we walked down in the hot sun to watch with a crowd of others. Kids ducked under the security tape and played around the police cars and water sprayed blew back over us from the fire-hoses. The fire was beautiful - flames and black smoke shot into the sky from the old chimney - but when it was done the mill was pitiful, a dead thing - all hollow-eyed and alone next to the living river. Now we walk past it and avert our eyes from it's skeleton. The mill is dead, we are alive, and we would forget the past if only the skeleton would go.