Millions of deaths would not have happened if it weren’t for the consumption of alcohol. The same can be said about millions of births.
Well, if you’d let me explain before you went bolting outta the room, then you’d know, wouldn’t you? It seems to me that you’re quite dead. So I’ve come to collect you.
Death would be an extremely bad thing like most of us paint it, if being dead were painful.
I don’t know how these things died without benefit of a bullet to the brain pan. They seemed to exist in an eternal twilight of longing.
The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.
You want to go out to dinner sometime?
Sorry, no. I’m married, not hungry, infected with seven unknown diseases, gay, pregnant with lizards and clinically dead.
The inner fight never does any dead. (Le combat intérieur – Ne fait jamais de mort)
You are a cool cemetery.
You have the sinner’s grave
You have the saint’s earth
You have all the beds
narrow as a knife;
as if a rally of tombstones to defend death.
But you can’t really postpone
the inauguration of my burial,
From the poem – Few Words to Cemetery
Technically, all tattoos are temporary, even permanent ones.
The sound of him drinking was indescribable-like dirty runoff down a storm drain.