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“Death has many pieces. At the very end, our lives fractured, and the shards swam away to where they belonged. The still-living carry those parts around with them: kind words and gentle skin-touches and sweet, sweet tears. The best parts of us are elsewhere, spread out across the land in a fine mist of memory. Our voices are the last thrumming of an insect's wing on a web. All that lodges here is the shape of our ending.” — Sheila Armstrong
Death has many pieces. At the very end, our lives fractured, and the shards swam away to where they belonged. The still-living carry those parts around with them: kind words and gentle skin-touches and sweet, sweet tears. The best parts of us are elsewhere, spread out across the land in a fine mist of memory. Our voices are the last thrumming of an insect's wing on a web.
All that lodges here is the shape of our ending.