Lust is the devils work, and the devil is tireless.

Death's promise isn't on the horizon anymore. It's standing next to us. Every now and then it checks it's watch and grins.

'm struck, as always, by how inadequate the location of death is when compared to the truth of death itself. I saw a pretty young woman once, staked out in the dirt. She was naked. She'd been strangled. Her tongue lolled from her swollen, beaten mouth. Her open eyes stared at the sky. She still had some of her beauty, but it was fading fast, being eaten around the edges by the coming entropy. Dead she was, she still put the dirt to shame. There was no forest, no ground and no sky, there was only her. No canvass exists that can really add to an ended life; death frames itelf.