fergal989

Death sleeps at the foot of my bed. It doesn't take up much room, and it is usually quiet. But sometimes Death feels talkative, and we chat, two old friends. It complains of an aching spine, and I think of the cursed Atlas, holding the world on his shoulders. Is that your burden, my dear friend, to hold up the world? I would think you would lighten it by stealing away good folk everyday, every hour, ever minute, even tick of existence in this reality. If the world were an empty husk, holding it wouldn't be much of a burden at all, now would it? How could we curse the synonymous Atlas then? Alas, life is just as infectious as death, for