The old man smiled. ‘I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of having lived.
We could endlessly reminisce, live in the past to an unhealthy degree, then politely kill each other some winter night before bedtime, stirring poison into our cups of whiskey-spiked chamomile tea, wearing party hats. Then,...
Él no se mató, no. Murió como…, como todo el mundo un día muere.
Some bridges you crossed on your own, no matter who drove you to the edge.
I wish that death had spared me until your library had been complete.
In her room death would come as a friend, a friend with cool gentle hands . . .
We born dyin’…But you ask a man an’ he talk like he gonna live forevah.