Oh no.
Last spring Emilio was in my front garden. He admired the flowers: hundreds of daffodils, tulips and hyacinths. Then he dug up half of them for the work I was doing on my house.
This spring Emilio won't be admiring the flowers. He'll be underground in a hole someone else dug, like my bulbs. And if anything grows from this strange seed it won't be among the vases of crysanthemums and the marble slabs.
Nothing makes a mockery of everything like the eyes of a dying man.
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