From afar, I see people in their village homes. When one family faces death and birth, the whole village gathers to weep. They open their mouths, wailing over a corpse, unaware how soon their own turn will come. We’re all just ghosts due for a long sleep, briefly standing on earth. They try to care for their children like spreading a blanket—turning it from dry to damp. One dies and is buried deep, the next dies and takes their place.