As I witness the dead of beloved ones, it makes be become more conscious that life indeed has an end.

From this height the sleeping city seems like a child's construction, a model which has refused to be constrained by imagination. The volcanic plug might be black Plasticine, the castle balanced solidly atop it a skewed rendition of crenellated building bricks. The orange street lamps are crumpled toffee-wrappers glued to lollipop sticks.

Two turtle doves will show theeWhere my cold ashes lieAnd sadly murmuring tell theeHow in tears I did die.

The poetry of history lies in the quasi-miraculous fact that once, on this earth, once, on this familiar spot of ground, walked other men and women, as actual as we are today, thinking their own thoughts, swayed by their own passions, but now all gone, one generation vanishing into another, gone as utterly as we ourselves shall shortly be gone, like ghosts at cockcrow.

A word aptly uttered or written cannot be cut away by an axe.

There is absolutely no worse death curse than the humdrum daily existence of the living dead.

Deep down inside we always seek for our departed loved ones.

I didn’t know if I should put my faith in God or Satan. Was there really a difference at the end of the day, when we were all going to be dead souls anyway?