The three saddest things are the ill wanting to be well, the poor wanting to be rich, and the constant traveler saying "anywhere but here." But yet he is all these things, and none of them at the same time. He, a man who has seen more countries than Ben has ever seen cities, who speaks languages Ben cannot even pronounce - he who has played to packed auditoriums and yet never made enough money to cover the price of the medication he needed to live - he is all of these things and none of them, somehow, all together at once.

Ben can't describe it, but when he looks at Will's ever-gaunter face he feels a kind of awe he's never felt before, mixed up with the grief and the sadness and the anger that all come from watching your best friend die. He feels humbled to see this, to feel it, to be close enough to touch it if he wanted to; it, this, this inner peace and light that seemed to exist solely within him, this thing that made his face bright even as his cheeks hollowed and his brow fell. It is the joy, that solitary joy that exists only in those well enough - whole enough - to want nothing else. It comes from the fact that he is ill and poor and dying, and that he has made his peace here, here at the end of the world. It comes from the fact that he does not try to hide the tinge of sadness in his laughter or the grief in his smile or the tired depth of his eyes when he is staring down into the vastness of the sea and wondering what it will be like there, in that darkness that is the darkness of the grave. He wonders the things that men fear to wonder, and says the things that men fear to say: I am lonely. I am afraid. I do not know what the universe is made of, or when or why or how. I do not know what comes after - after love ends, after the stars fall, after I am gone and the world must go on without me. I know nothing except that one day I must find out.

There is a light within him that comes from opening himself up to the very things Benjamin has spent his whole life running from, prying himself open with bloody fingers and then letting the darkness inside, letting it settle there in the hidden fragile parts that Benjamin cannot bring himself to acknowledge even in the silence of the nighttime with the pillow wrapped around his head. It comes from reaching out to welcome death in, from remembering that death is not, indeed, a stranger but a shadow, the last thing that will be standing there when you are the only thing left.