We all die alone, but some more alone than others.

A scene from this morning’s NYT story about the war in Shejaiya neighborhood in Gaza.

“At Shifa Hospital, a girl who looked about 9 was brought into the emergency room and laid on a gurney, blood soaking the shoulder of her shirt. Motionless and barely alive, she stared at the ceiling, her mouth open. There was no relative with her to give her name. The medical staff stood quietly around her. Every now and then, they checked her vital signs, until it was time. They covered her with a white sheet, and she was gone. A few moments later, a new patient lay on the gurney.”

Words may tell us this story, but words fail in the face of the scene these words create.

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