At the gravesite after the ceremony, friends took the shovels from the waiting gravediggers and completed the burial themselves.

life is absurd be absurd

i went crazy in the snow
eating snow by the fistful
snow from the tops of the
tallest trees clapping
within the joy i found peace
exhaling birds through coral
peace known only by wind

i saw the seasons change
all at once
my hands spanned open
as if the whole world
was awaiting my arrival

but i was here all along
and like nothing but sleep
drifted away from the light

Japanese performance artist Kenichi Kanazawa taps a rubber mallet on a steel table to make sound vibrations that create transforming sand patterns

a life in the past cannot be shared with the present. each person who gets stuck in time gets stuck alone

So you mustn’t be frightened, dear Mr. Kappus, if a sadness rises in front of you, larger than any you have ever seen; if an anxiety, like light and cloud-shadows, moves over your hands and over everything you do. You must realize that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall. Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness, any misery, any depression, since after all you don’t know what work these conditions are doing inside you? Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where all this is coming from and where it is going? Since you know, after all, that you are in the midst of transitions and you wished for nothing so much as to change. If there is anything unhealthy in your reactions, just bear in mind that sickness is the means by which an organism frees itself from what is alien; so one must simply help it to be sick, to have its whole sickness and to break out with it, since that is the way it gets better. In you, dear Mr. Kappus, so much is happening now; you must be patient like someone who is sick, and confident like some one who is recovering; for perhaps you are both. And more: you are also the doctor, who has to watch over himself. But in every sickness there are many days when the doctor can do nothing but wait. And that is what you, insofar as you are your own doctor, must now do, more than anything else.

— Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke (translated by S. Mitchell)