dying is so slow, so slow in the making. and we are always wishing it to be slower still. a few years longer, let me breath on the machine. a few years longer, let me have the vaccine. a few years longer whatever the bill. a few years longer, and longer still. and all the time we worry that more will not come. all that time is eaten up by expectation of it's end.

it's end and the last breath and the last "oh God, not me, not now" comes out, and the choirs of angels and churchbells usher the soul away. the empty shell grows cold and shrivels under a marble monument while teary eyes watch the grass grow over their dear ones. it grows cold and withers while teary eyes dry and turn away.