There's not a day that goes by, without me thinking of you, dying, in someone else's arms.

Don't be in temper, to leave so quickly, that I may be dying. But all too soon, the leaves and debris will gather elsewhere.

The paint is drying, and time is dying. The pain is crying, lying on my back, trying to get back the time, to brushstrokes too fast, wet went dry and love went dull; now I live in a portrait I never painted.

The truth is we're all dying, the lie is we're all living.

I dreamed of dying, long before my dreams have died.

Rather than you smoking a cigarette, the cigarette is really smoking you.