Lammermoore.

We had her put to sleep today. So: fear no more the heat of the sun.

A morning ago, we were watching her pawing at her tumour; she could not have understood why she was going through the pain. She couldn't eat; and she must have been terribly confused why she was so hungry. We knew why, and we knew what we had to do; everyone agreed it was the best thing. I was wondering about our own pains, our tragedies, so strange to us, are they intelligible, and are they intelligible to someone? Her last moments were nasty and brutish: an unyielding hand, a cold needle in the heart, darkness eating through the mind, and only then, nothing. Yet we think, she's better off this way. We comfort ourselves, she'd be comforted if she understood our intentions, respected our foresight (we know she will suffer). Can we comfort ourselves, too, that there is a reason to what we don't understand?