Does one ever truly disappear? Is one ever really born in the first place? No. There is nowhere to go, and nothing to see. And because of that there is everywhere to go, and everything to see. What becomes of death? Life. What becomes of life? Death. There is so much worry in the world, so take comfort only in this:
No mind, all soul
No soul, all mind
There is neither, and both
One, yet two
There was never two to become one
Or one to become two
Only the ramblings of men
And the game played by naked gods
See this, and come find me in the rain.
How strange that one can explain reality in so few words, and still keep writing. It is human most; the desire to keep writing, to keep going, even when there is truly nothing to write about. But for such a foolish purpose I would die happily, pen in hand.