死
The past is never dead. It's not even past.
The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death.
The past is never dead. It's not even past.
"The past is never dead. It's not even past."
The past is never dead. It's not even past.
We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves.
We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of True Romance magazines—we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way.
Write, write or die.
The past is not dead. It is not even past.
The past is not dead, it is not even past.
The past is never dead. It's not even past.
The past is never dead. It's not even past.
The dead speak if you know how to listen.
The past is never dead. It's not even past.
"The past is never dead. It's not even past."
We all owe death a life.
Every murder leaves two victims: the deceased and the killer.
"To be born poor is an accident, but to die poor is a choice."
To be under occupation is to be reminded of death at every moment.