There is something about you that makes me think about death.
And thinking about death, makes me question my beliefs.
You made me dream of death, after years and years of celebrating life.
I asked myself, if I died, would there be anybody at my funeral?
Part of me hopes not, and that part can't bear the thought of anyone crying for me, watching over my dead body.
Another part of me would like the reverse, and that part would feel touched from behind the veil, with the fact that even in death I would have so many gathered for me.
I'd like it if someone read something I wrote, but deep down I know I have not the art to touch your hearts.
I was eight when I found out that one day I was going to die, and so, too, would everyone I would ever love.
It was the strangest thing; I distinctly remember asking my mother when my birthday was due (for, as a child, birthdays were magical days that seemed always too distant to me), and she said that I would be eight in three days time.
Three days later i was an eight year-old girl, older than any eight year-old should be, with the knowledge of death.
She braided my hair, and I cried because I didn't want to die.
It's funny, because as I think these words, I know they are not mine, and they are not me.
But still... still they are more me and mine than I'll ever know.
This is all I wanted to say to you, and I wanted you to know that it won't be much longer now.
Beyond the corner of life, you await me.
And I will fall in your arms.
"He stole from the rich, and the poor,
and the not very rich, and the very poor...
and he stole all hearts away!"
Morrissey, The first of the gang to die