A tiny blade will sever the sutures of the neck, and when that joint, which binds together head and neck, is cut, the body’s mighty mass crumples in a heap. No deep retreat conceals the soul, you need no knife at all to root it out, no deeply driven wound to find the vital parts; death lies near at hand. . . . Whether the throat is strangled by a knot, or water stops  the breathing, or the hard ground crushes in the skull of one falling headlong to its surface, or flame inhaled cuts off the course of respiration — be it what it may; the end is swift.

— Seneca