Walking might conjure it, from an arrhythmic lub-dub of footsteps perhaps: the realisation, as poet Jane Draycott has it, “that you are here until you are suddenly not”. Afterwards, the world can seem different, seem as it is: teeming with death. “So many”, wrote T S Eliot, “I had not thought death had undone so many”. And their bodies, the bodies of the many—fraying slowly, acutely breaking, newly dead—are so often met by medicine. As John Berger tells us, doctors are “the familiar of death…the living intermediary between us and the multitudinous dead”.