Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
and scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
and yet we think the greatest pain’s to die.
How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
and lead a life of woe, but not forsake
his rugged path; nor dare he view alone
his future doom which is but to awake.
— On Death Keats.
scene in a grey desert/pulling this thing over
We reached the point where the trail branched
and, virulently, spread
Do the hundred capillaries carry?
“This looks quite like the End”