Some people I truly admire and love as a friend are dead. Sometimes, I have a strange Cobain-style feeling : «I'm so happy, cause today I found my friends, they're in my head». I remember these people: their language, their appearance, their manners and characters ... They all were so different, so original, separate from me. But now they seem to live in me ... It's such a strange thing... Does memory in old age finally turn from stories of victories and defeats to the spiritual variant of the cemetery?
