With horror he perceived that, by uniting himself as he had with the dead, he had cut himself off from the living. Stripped of all earthly hope, bereft of every consolation, he was rendered as poor as mortal can possiblybe on this side of the grave.
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Teach me to live that I may dread The grave as little as my bed.
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Every artist takes their final work to the grave.
We must make time to reflect on life.Someday this life will be gone.
I'm already gone. I died that night on the side of that road with my sister.
Perfection isn't everything," she said as she turned and walked away. "I think the flaws are what make it perfect.
With her I'd buried myself, every memory of who I was now, six feet under with the sister I'd put there.