oblivion

She was my black rose, a broken angel I could hug and drift away with into peaceful oblivion.

All things fade into the storied past, and in a little while are shrouded in oblivion.

On his thirteenth birthday he had seen a film in which the central character was a painter who, unable to sell his work, grew cold and hungry as he went from one unsuccessful interview to the next; eventually he had become a vagrant, sleeping in the streets of the city where once he had walked in hope. Hawksmoor left the cinema in a mood of profound, terrified apprehension and, from that time, he was filled with a sense of time passing and with the fear that he might be left discarded on its banks. The fear had not left him, although now he could no longer remember from where it came: he looked back on his earlier life without curiosity, since it seemed to lack intrinsic interest, and when he looked forward he saw the same steady attainment of goals without any joy in their attainment. For him, the state of happiness was simply the state of not suffering and, if he cared for anything, it was for oblivion.

Oblivion is the place where all my best thoughts reside or I must say hide.

We must forget in order to remain present, forget in order not to die, forget in order to remain faithful.

She smiles, and her eyes look as if they can see back into her memory, into all the things that have gone into making a person what they are.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burnThe living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmityShall you pace forth; your praise shall still find roomEven in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom.So, till the judgment that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

And I try to remember if this happened before, because this is a memory I would want to keep.But there is no echo of it in my mind.

Though Isobel could recall only a few specifics regrading the appearance of Poe's wife-a handful of vague characteristics picked up during her study with Varen, retained from the one or two glimpses she'd had for her portraits- Scrimshaw, it seemed, had forgotten nothing.

Having a relationship with people of questionable character is like playing with a razor blade on your skin, and pretending to observe that it is harmful to your body.

...she imagines her body curled in the narrow monk's bed, knees to chin, her own irrefutable geography, but she sees the blood of her futile heart seeping out over her chest and arms and legs, flooding across the rough wooden floor, down the narrow wooden stairs and out into the old soil of the garden. No roses, no, she does not even ask to make roses, just dissolution; most any night she asks just for that.

No mark survives this place: you too will yieldto unmemory.

I believe there is no heaven or hell. There are no devils or angels. No afterlife or salvation. My soul won't be incarnated or lost in the oblivion. One day, I will just stop existing... and that's it!

You loved her," Isobel

Isobel had entrusted the note to Gwen just before Baltimore. And the small scrap of paper still remained her only tangible evidence that Varen had loved her.Expect...he didn't anymore.

Unless death is made a lesson for the living, the life lived is wasted.Why should life come into existence only to be destroyed? One dies and another is born__or what? A few miserable hours of life__hen oblivion!With this recognition of the finality of death, no one should willingly withhold acts that would bring benefits, joy or happiness to others. In death, the hesitant act can no longer be performed__he word of praise is as impossible as yesterday's return.What perversity justified inflicting pain, suffering and death upon others who have done no wrong? If death ends all, why fight while we are living? Why shorten life with unnecessary pain and suffering? How futile are the petty problems of individuals, with their hates and jealousies, when all vanish with death? All the prayers in the world cannot wipe out one injustice.Every wrong is irreparable.The dead cannot forgive.All the tears and sighs are of no avail.Forgiveness cannot be granted when lips cannot move.Praise cannot be heard when ears cannot hear; joy cannot be experienced when the heart no longer beats; and the happiness of an affectionate embrace can no longer be felt when arms are limp and the eyes are forever closed.

For the vile human pigs in life; the sloppy, disheveled, uncaring dregs, the ungrateful, and especially for the vicious, negative emotional peasants _ there will only continue to be the hard and painful lessons you so desperately need. The invisible hand will hold you in your wretched place until your last breath _ unless you evolve. If you are cruel and ignorant the invisible fist will pound you into oblivion until you submit, humble yourself and soften your hard heart.

Standing at the edge of timeAlmost falling down to the dark abyssAs I near the end of mineI reminisce the things I will missThe smiles and laughterRunning around without a careThe time when my grin will never falterBeing so free, willing my soul to bareHeartaches, heartbreaks and tearsNow I know better and to myself I will never lieBecause in woe, I learned to love and never fearThose were the best and worst moments of my lifeAs the memories rush back to meI look down and now I feel relievedBecause when it is timeEverything will be fine when I leave