A writing exercise:
The exercise was to visit a nearby cemetary, sit down next to the oldest tombstone you could find, and write about the person lying underneath you.
The sun was shining that day, and the grass was just turning green after the long winter. I knew the cemetary. I had friends and family buried there, but not in the oldest section. There were some grand, ornate monuments; none on the scale of Ozymandias, but impressive nonetheless. Others were thin, or leaning, or broken. But the oldest tombstone stood as upright as the day it was placed. It was deeply pitted, though. The writing chiseled into it was barely legible.
I sat down, took the pen from my shirt pocket, and started the exercise. “They’re dead.” I wrote.
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there was a soft voice in my ear. “Are you sure?” it said.