The path to the side where breaths take a break is coated with dried up hearts, searching for valves of restoration. We can’t ever know what is required until destination emerges in dreams. The long sleep towards forever is really a shuttle of discouraged deliverables, that make earthly bedding uninhabitable. The next step is the fountain of explosions, truffling where schemes of souls are waiting to be claimed, by disjointed passengers, fuming over missing cargo.
Dying while dead is the seething method of departure for those who die when they want to.
