A decade ago, I used to go on walks. Drunken walks. In those days, gin was my companion, my confidante, my comfort. I would go to a pond near my home, then across the street to a cemetery. There is a place in the cemetery called the “City of Angels.” The baby plots. I would go there often, even though my infant son does not have a grave there, or anywhere for that matter. I would clean up the grave sites and put the toys and flowers and other mementos back to where they belonged after being blown around by the wind.
Fortescue EB. Oblivion. JAMA. 2018;319(17):1767–1768. doi:10.1001/jama.2018.4147
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