The smallest of incidents can shake the world. The soul is a single drop of essence. In that is housed the collective experiences of thousands of lives, all art, all fears, all imagination, all hatred. The sins of the father, the cruelty of the mother, the kindness of the stranger, the naivete of the miscarried breathe and bond within that tiny mote. But the intention of the hand that delivers that mote means nothing. For the dead won't care who killed them. That is the job of the living.