I tried hard to forget, but there remained inside me a vague knot of air.
And as time went by, the knot began to take on a clear and simple
form, a form that I am able to put into words, like this:
Death exists, not as the opposite but as a part of life.
It's a cliché translated into words, but at the time I felt it not as words
but as that knot of air inside me. Death exists - in a paperweight, in
four red and white balls on a pool table - and we go on living and
breathing it into our lungs like fine dust.

Author: Haruki Murakami