Today I wandered around a cemetary for about two hours. I don't know why, really. There is nobody famous buried there (except Dalida, the French version of Cher... except Dalida was hot), but I enjoyed it. Perhaps I have a weird facination with death. Eerie, I know. But I think it's natural. Walking around the tombs of unknown thousands, formulating life stories based on the busts and other decorations of the grave: what better way to pass the time in Paris!
While daydreamingily meandering through rows upon rows of ornate coffins, I remembered a conversation I once had with my father. We discussed the entire idea of that empty spot on a tombstone. That blank space is reserved for when the deceased has a family member who also dies; then their name, DOB, and date of death are inscribed in that space.
What a horrifying concept! Imagine looking at a grave stone. There is your loved one's name and the day that they died. Right below that... nothing... yet. That smooth granite is eventually going to have your name carved in it, along with the day that you died! Talk about a feeling of impending doom.
I need to stop thinking about this. I need a drink (luckily I have to attend a company party in a half hour. Offical business stuff: scmoozing with the new business partner).