Is it that characters in novels do not need to be admired for their virtues,
but the characters need to be understood?
Is it that we can’t conquer life? Is it for us to attempt to understand it?
Is this our reason for being?
Is realizing our insignificance a key to understanding?
But who wants to realize his or her insignificance?
Do most dramatic actions serve as shields for what’s behind them?
So, does our parade go on and function as a hiding place in plain sight,
so close, so common?
Is death something few are ever prepared for?