Life is a conceptually alienated figure. 

What goes on is a habit of sorts.

The better you have practised, the better you pretend.

Shadows emerge. Reflections appear. Silhouettes play on in an illusion of light.

Things happen. The way rivers do. And flow on eroding edges of precarious sanity.

Close your eyes. No one dies all at once. And it's okay. 

Condolences are rehearsed songs. Sing to yourself.

And the better you have practised, the better you pretend.