"There they lie. The rain falls. The wind blows. The seasons pass and the gun rusts and the brightly colored costumes dull and rot and the leaves from all the trees round about fall on them, heap over them, cover them, and grass grows round them then stars growing out of them, through them, through ribs and eyeholes, then flowers appear in the grass, and when the costumes and the perishable parts have all rotted away or been eaten clean by creatures happy to have sustenance, there’s nothing left of them, the pantomime innocents or the man with the gun, but bones in grass, bones in flowers, the leafy branches of the ash tree above them. Which is what, in the end, is left of us all, whether we carry a gun while we’re here or we don’t. So. While we’re here. I mean, while we’re still here.” (Smith, 127)