When you think about the gloriousness of the dying shrew, you wonder as to the purpose of life. Why is it that a shrew needs to die? Why do any of us need to die? Slowly, we come to a more ectoplasmic understanding of the universe, and begin to comprehend the mysteries that this shrew experinces. Though, that makes one wonder: Are those mysteries mysterious to the shrew, or merely to us? What IS a mystery?

Looking further into the work, we notice that the "pre-dawn mist isn't necessary, but it should be dark." What is this fixation with darkness that fills our lives? Are we truely that angsty, that hell bent on self-destruction that we will create darkness in our lives where none needed to exist? How about the violent death? I personally think that the person who wrote this was obviously suffering from a form of dementia and needs immediate psychatric treatment. Though, the demented person might feel the same about me. How can we know the difference between who is right and who is wrong? How can we indeed.