I don’t want to love or watch the sun die against his face. So blow North, Father Wind, and lift the hair from the nape of my neck, cool and tender, and leave the hand pressed against my back for me to grasp.

I could stop rationalizing and thinking as soon as I became focused enough to articulate clearly. I highly doubt either will occur.

In my mind and in my heart the dead and the undead reside in constant sorrow.