Crying at a Buddhist Funeral
The room is a blurry haze; the bright orange of monastic robes saturate her vision and her feet seem to hover as she moves to an open chair. Her mind is distant and she can’t feel a thing but for a sensation of cold emptiness that presses against her chest, growing and growing, threatening to freeze her. She raises her eyes – they are heavy and wet with tears – but the faces of those around her are tranquil; at ease, as if someone has not just died....
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