Cold autumn morning.
The duvet just barely there.
The alarm buzzed, I turned to switch it off.
Message from mum: "Uncle Ray died this am."

So simple, so sterile.
Reminds me of hospital corridors.
Where the doctors will shake their heads.
Stare gravely into your eyes.
And say: We did all we can.
Which translates into "he's fucking in hell now".
And off they go to bang nurses in the closet.

Death's sweet, sweet scent.
It hangs at every turn of our heads.
In our limbs, in our eyes, on our tongue.
Decay's beautiful legacy.
So why fear the gorgeous?
Because it kills.

A sparrow came to me the other day.
She kissed me on my cheek.
Landed on my shoulder.
And whispered.
"You're dying.
That's what makes you so beautiful."

We are dying.
Every minute that we are not living.
It will work out into an even equilibrium one day.
Whence the heart no longer knows how to beat.
The lungs know not how to speak.
And then the brain.
It'll die of loneliness for the departure of its beating love.

Where will we go when we're dead?
Why bother really?
When we don't even know why we're living.
So breathe.
So Love.

Come with me.
I see the sparrow.
She's just there, waiting for me.
In the far horizon where the Sun lives.