Today felt like the first day of Summer, yet the city has never been this cold. Cecily left us, they write. A Facebook post, a heart, some confused words of a friend who tells her Goodbye. And here comes the truth, who turned today's blue sky into a huge black hole. No way out. Cecily is dead. I didn’t see this coming. We all knew she was ill. But I’ve read her story, I’ve listened to it: in the past two years, Cecily chewed death and then spat it. She talked about it, she wrote about, she painted about it. She exorcised the demon, made it human… vulnerable. Because after all death, the thought of death, is only deadly to the living: it can only affect us when we are alive. The fear of it, mostly, its overshadowing presence. But in her words, in the conversations she had, death had the same relevance of the last nail polish she had bought or the horoscope of the day. She didn't only fight it, she opposed it, she denied the disease its deadly status, by t