The day after I stop living, I wonder if we’ll still be here. We have to be somewhere. Or, is that what we want?
I don’t care about the rumors on death. Only what is dead would know how to even care about it. And, I won’t really be dead. My words will remain here as long as the language seems to make sense. We will find a way to remain eternal.
When I won’t be living, I won’t be dead. I am more than the flesh, the words and just what remains at their end. I am here to remain, to put glory in the eyes of darkness and to sing a song of love to the hateful eight.
Until death, I am living the story. And, when I won’t be living, I want to be the story.