Unlike the previous generation that has seen her flourish in all her beauty, I belong to the tribe, the one that clings on to her history and fond memories. I am holding her hand on her deathbed and before her departure, she can take me. She may take my last breath as hers if it prolongs her life for just a bit. For art can be love. And love is suicide.

My lover is dying. So am I.

And it seems only you sympathise the dead.