This will be a gloomy entry about death.
Real death, not a romantic version of it, always leaves me dry and cold. Hopeless.
It always reveals itself as a stamp of lesson. A maze of memories you had forgotten seem more real than ever.
You always force yourself to learn upon it.
You always force yourself to honor the memories of your fallen.
You pull them to live inside your mind. Their mutant images will forever be praised by our subconscious.
Love is greater in death, thats true.
I end with a quote taught to me by a dear dead friend:
"(A toast)To absent friends, lost loves, old gods and the season of mists; and may each and everyone of us always give the devil his due"
-Hob Gadling
-The Sandman Vol 4, The Season of Mists
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