death

It is an arresting thought that all that makes you lovely is deceased. Where body meets air, we are all cadavers.

I remember being amazed that death could so easily rise up from the nothing of a boyish afternoon, billow up like fog.

We are all dutifully practicing our deaths.

I think now, daily, of what death said to the drowning girl: “You drown in three feet or in six, matters not to me.”

I thought once that gods are the opposite of death, but I see now they are more dead than anything, for they are unchanging, and can hold nothing in their hands.

It kills me sometimes, how people die.

For some reason, dying men always ask questions they know the answer to. Perhaps it’s so they can die being right.

If they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.

I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result.