Nobody wants to believe that existence carries on without at least taking a stumble from their departure of this world.

Once a flower is picked it immediately begins to die.

Death was not the scariest thing out there; no, the denial of it could be far worse.

Maybe that was why the French called orgasms “las petites morts”: because the things that bring us passion tend to slip past our defenses, to creep insidiously into every facet of our consciousnesses and kill us as ruthlessly, and efficiently, as any drug.

That's why all humans are so afraid to die. Nobody wants to think they don't matter.

Now she knew living was just a brief hiatus, a blip really, in the infinite line of nothingness that composed that shadowy realm of the unknown. It could stop at any time.