I think I can paint this world for you now. From decadence and disorderly life to death and blank slates. Something I own, expressed dearfully to you as if I have always owned it. Perhaps remembered by no one in the end, but for now, maybe even just a glimpse of light from the murk and more, just to prove it can exist. even if it fades within the hour.

Sincerly,
       Rosier.

Dear Death,

A world that burns constantly. With every revolution instead of new horizons, new winds embolden the chaos' that engulfs you. 


In this world where my ideas are too much to acheive alone, and none dream big enough to help anyway. It seems the idea needed most of all is capacity to grow. 


What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in your loneliest loneliness, and say, 'This life which you live must be lived by you once again and innumerable times more; and every pain and joy and thought and sigh must come again to you, all in the same sequence. The eternal hourglass will again and again be turned and you with it, dust of the dust!' Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse that demon? Or would you answer, 'Never have I heard anything more divine'? 


God is jealous of our breakage and gives us his mercy by shortening our lives. Our fathers live till 100, we live until 70, and our children are dead. 


To romanticize death is to spit at god and I am sorry.