You need a little bit of death to feel alive.

Sleep is sweet; it isn’t when you’re no longer awake. Both variables are inevitable.

Death: an abundance of sleep forever.

Sleep: a taste of death for a period.

That sleep which brings pleasant flowers to thy bed.

That sleep which brings pleasant memories to thy loved ones.

That sleep which saddens everyone.

That forever beautifully decorated sleep.

Thy bed, a stiff wooden box, laced with adornments, an uncommon bed, one that gives no room for stretches. A bed in which you lie alone, not cold, but cold.

Everyone watches you sleep, so peaceful you are, yet their eyes are decorated with tears. Their hearts melt away with grief. They lean into one another for support.

Their bones weak while your skin is firm. Your flesh, your blood, your sorrows, your joy, your love, your heart, paused. Your silence is listening to the silence of the earth.

There you lie asleep, my love. Six men’s feet walk past, and below you were, unhinged from the madness of this world.

I’ll cry a river for you, my love, but for now I need to sleep.