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“I'll give my jewels for a set of beads,
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,
My gay apparel for an almsman's gown,
My figured goblets for a dish of wood,
My scepter for a palmer's walking staff
My subjects for a pair of carved saints
and my large kingdom for a little grave.”
― William Shakespeare, Richard II

“When it happens and it hits hard, we decide certain things, and realize there's truth in all those dark, lonely days"

He had an instantaneous look about him,
a glimmer and a glint over those eyes,
he knew how the world worked,
and took pleasure in its wickedness.

He would give a dime or two to those sitting on the street,
he would tell them things like:
"It won't get any better,"
and
"Might as well use this to buy your next fix,"
and finally
"It's better to die high than to live sober,"

His suit was pressed nicely, with care and respect,
like the kind a corpse wears,
he'd say that was his way of honoring the dead,
of always being ready for the oncoming train,
I liked him,
he never wore a fake smile
and he was always ready to tell a story about
how and
when

"We all wake up alone," he said once,
"Oftentimes even when sleeping next to someone, we wake up before them and they are still asleep and suddenly we are awake, and alone."
I didn't see him for a few days,
a few days later it felt like it'd been weeks,
those weeks drifted apart from one another,
like leaves on a pond's surface,
and became like months.

And then I saw him and I asked him where he'd been,
he said,
"I woke up alone one day, just like any other, and I decided I didn't like it anymore.”
― Dave Matthes, Ejaculation: New Poems and Stories

“[Scott] heard the clock on the living room mantel strike midnight, and he could no longer lie there suffering. He slipped from his bed, dressed, and so quietly that he might not even have existed--and wouldn't that have been the best, he thought miserably--left the house. Spring field crickets chirred in the darkness but stopped as he passed, and their sudden silence felt to him like censure. The moon poured silver over the town, and his black shadow kept company at his side. He walked without particular purpose, walked because he couldn't be still, walked mindless, walked dead.”
― William Kent Krueger, The River We Remember

“Sorrow? So that was it then? All I knew about this emotion was how it used to turn life into nightmare eons ago, just like a thorn could steal away a rose’s beauty.”
― Victoria Moschou, Guardian of the Auras