There is a park in the heart of Paris where people go to practice dying. It is an open glade in the woods, so most people don't even know it exists. The students arrive each morning dressed in white and carrying cots and pillows and sheets as if they are preparing to set up a field hospital. Some are on the brink of death and have to be carried in. Others haven't felt that darkness descend but want to be ready when it does. A few don't have anything else to do. I didn't know this place existed until you told me last night after dinner; you had been there before. I asked Why, though what I'd meant to do was put my arms around you. You said the instructor the year you had been was from Morocco. He showed you how to gently pull at the luminous threads of your soul to loosen it. Some fall asleep during the lessons. Others begin to cry. The week you were there someone actually died. You all stood over him, and the teacher had you, one by one, place your fingers on his pulse to feel how beautifully silent his blood had become. And you told me, I hope I never forget that.