Nostalgia has a way of blocking the reality of the past.

She was dry, dry inside like a ten-thousand-year-old tomb, with the last of her life barely dampening the dirt underneath.

Well I’d certainly hate to interrupt your pleasant night stroll with my sudden death.

It is life that fights and struggles and rages; life, that tears at you in its last agonizing throes to hold on, even if but for one futile instant longer… Whereas I, I come softly...