Next to the massive but elegant church building, famous for its late baroque design, rest the brothers of the Benedictine order, only 10 are still alive. The last ones of an order that was founded nearly a millennium, the various buildings cover most of the hill above Neresheim.
Side by side, the graves identical only on first impression; under closer inspection the wrought iron crosses show a design that differs from grave to grave, a minute difference granted in death after a life of communal spirit and work, wearing the same habit, following the same habits; all the same.
Did they ever have the wish to be different? Identifiable? Special?
How can you resign from the need to be unique?
Maybe this monotony in death is the final peace and safety. For those brothers in shrouds it seems it is.