Today, tomorrow, the dead, the unborn, the sick and dying. Another face in the hundred other faces. The walls are thick with thankas, pastel pinks and icy hells, skulls cups and lotus flowers.
Mothers are rocking babies, fathers creak like old bones.
We all inch forward to hear the large monk in yellow robes who says how forty-nine days after death we seek material form, see a range of lights, a chimera of colours. We drift to where our parents are making love and take form in the womb. To be reborn a human, he reminds us, is very, very rare. Bit 2 Breath in, breath out. Meaning of life through a contemplation on death.