They only let me touch his feet. To ask for forgiveness, they say. I refuse to do so. I just want to touch his hair, because I can still remember how soft it always was. And I haven't touched it in ages. But when I move towards his head, the lady in charge clears her throat and says to me curtly, "Only touch his feet; it causes less pain." But how can he feel pain at all? He's been like this for the better part of the day. My dear boy. He's only 28 years old. That's young, isn't it? I think it is. I don't want to touch his feet at all. They actually look asleep; the veins have enlarged and it looks as though he stepped in an inky puddle on his way here. I don't even need to ask for forgiveness, it's just another one of those century-old traditions which I have never understood and what I have always rebelled against. In mind, at least, if not in action. He can't hear me, anyway. I don't care what they say. They have said ...