Death always happens to others. We fabricate our lives heedless of the fact that we are going to die. We know about the expiration of human life, but this knowledge does not seem to apply to ourselves. Sometimos death passes nearby, too near, so near that we are aware that someday it will also come to call upon us. Memento mori, remember you shall die. Nevertheless, and paradoxically, however much we think about our own death, we are certain that when the moment comes we will not be able to mention it, perhaps not even feel it. The death that shocks and causes suffering always visits others, stirring the subject to question his own end. It is absurd to fear something that does not cause any pain, any affliction, especially considering that it is our only certainty. As Seneca said long ago, «Non mortem timemos sed cogitationem mortis», we do not fear death, but the thought of death.