This excerpt from "Drive your plow over the bones of the dead" by Olga Tokarczuk has been in my mind the past few days. Especially the last two sentences.

Pages 29 -30:
> Death is at the gates, I thought. But then death is always at our gates, at every hour of the day and Night, I told myself. For the best conversations are with yourself. At least there's no risk of misunderstanding.

(Link: <https://worldcat.org/en/title/1175678507>)