Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
We look into a mausoleum and into another age, an age long gone and as dead as the cadavers within. And yet somehow a colored photograph of a hot summer day brings an immediacy and life to the departed. I hear cicadas and the cascade of water. A gentle breeze occasionally rustles the leaves. The father is yelling at them to BE STILL.
Was this monument intended to be vaguely erotic?