Right. Sorry, got to brush up on my Shakespeare.
So what we're trying to say is, if we're writing a deathfic, we should write about the clay that housed our souls being eaten by maggots and earthworms?
Actually, I don't agree. Men die and worms have eaten them, but when I think of death I think of the soul. The essence of the person we love has flown to where we cannot follow, and though they may flourish wherever they are, the tragedy is left to the living. I don't feel sorry for the dead, Ann. I feel sory for what they must have gone through and the fear they must have overcome and the promise their lives must have held yes. But once the well is dry, why would we care if its walls caved in upon itself?
I don't pity the dead, Ann. They are at peace. I pity the living who mourn them.
Difference of opinion, I guess.
