Blessed are ye, when men shall hate you, and when they shall separate you from their company, and shall reproach you, and cast out your name as evil, for the Son of man's sake. Rejoice ye in that day, and leap for joy: for, behold, your reward is great in heaven: for in the like manner did their fathers unto the prophets.
— Saying goodbye?
— Saying hello.
— You think your wife can hear you?
— No.
— Then why bother?
— Maybe I'm wrong.
This kinda shit happens every day. I used to complain that every day felt the same and then May 9th came, and now every day IS the same. Ugh, same wake-up scream, same machete-wielding asshole, same everything, with slight variations. One thing that never changes... is I die every single day. I die.
Nobody knows whether our personalities pass on to another exitence or sphere, but if we can evolve an instrument so delicate as to be manipulated by our personality as it survives in the next life such an instrument ought to record something...
Et montant au soleil, en son vivant foyer
Nos deux esprits iront se fondre et se noyer
Dans la félicité des flammes éternelles;
Cependant que sacrant le poète et l’ami,
La Gloire nous fera vivre à jamais parmi
Les Ombres que la Lyre a faites fraternelles.
— I want to tell you my secret now.
— Okay.
— ... I see people. Some of them scare me.
— In your dreams? When you're awake? Dead people, like in graves and coffins?
— No, walking around, like regular people... They can't see each other. Some of them don't know they're dead.
— They don't know they're dead?
— Beat.
Everybody leaves their mark after life, somebody becomes a monument, somebody becomes a tombstone.
Stoneface dog, swirling fog,
gates open on the dark dark night.
Standing stone, skull and bone,
dead witness to an unseen fight.
Beat the drum, beat the drum,
beat forever on the endless march.
Stricken dumb, cut and run,
someone is screaming and the sky is dark...
March or croak, flame and smoke,
burn forever in eternal pain.
Charge and fall, bugle call,
bone splinter in the driving rain,
Horses scream, Viking dream,
drowned heroes in a lake of blood.
Armoured fist, severed wrist,
broken spears in a sea of mud...
— Where do we go when we`re dead?
— I don`t even know where we are when we`re alive. Let alone when we`re dead. I`m not the person to ask you know...
— We`re nowhere and everywhere at once. Because we never really die, Zaza. Our lives carry on with the memory of us, and all the things around us.
— Yeah, well, hold on there! You can`t possibly mean that dead people carry on living in... in... flowers for example?
— Yes, they do! Also in trees, rivers, in the wind... Zaza, don`t be sad anymore. Feathers will always be around here, looking at you, thinking about you.
— I knew it. Thank you, Lian-Chu.
Anyway, if you stop tellin' people it's all sorted out afer they're dead, they might try sorting it all out while they're alive.