In the middle of the night, barefoot and sweating, Buddha Sakyamuni comes out of his temple carved into the rock in the desolate center of Kusinagar. It's September 12, and that's the city he chose to die for. Few inhabitants and few buildings, a damp and almost unusable temple where you can be alone with yourself and then, finally and suddenly, without anyone. Slowly, trudging along, he walks along the dark road - bare earth full of stones and forest scraps, dry leaves, crushed pieces of mango - towards the sanctuary where he knows he will find his cousin Ananda. He rained, there is a smell of mud and bare fields, of things sobbed by the earth. He steps on a puddle and lowers his head to look at himself, but finds only an impersonal darkness. Knock on the large wooden door. Ananda opens. "Did you have a bad dream?" "I need to ask you a question. Now." "I'm listening." Buddha has cold and trembling hands. He takes a breath, gathers all of himself inside himself like a child filling his pockets with pebbles. "Do you want me to stay alive?"
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