(Author's Note: I posted the two previous chapters of this morbid little yarn for the RPApril, though, those threads no longer seem to be accessible. If you're interested in seeing them, I can provide them to you directly. I decided to continue the cold, dark philosophical journey I began there with this entry, but it stands well enough on its own)
Chapter 4: Chasing the Dream. (Chapter 3 is here (http://role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=74134&p=2546994&viewfull=1#post2546994).)
“You don’t even consider all of the dreams he may have pursued if he had time to actually live a little longer, do you?” I questioned him, turning the gun over in my hands.
“Dreams are overrated. You can spend your whole life chasing a dream and never get it. Jeremy lived in the moment. He didn’t spend his life chasing something he never had.”
“It’s you who’s still alive, and yet you can stand here and say that with a straight face,” I confronted him again. “That kid’s dead, you’re alive, and you’re the one who thinks dreams are a waste of time. God must have a sick sense of humor.”
“I’m sure you think it ironic, but there is a distinct difference between living for your dreams, and living your dreams. And if you’re truly living your dream, then it’s not a dream, is it?” He stated this remark quite plainly, in a matter-of-fact way.
“I guess you don’t dream then.”
“I already told you; there’s no point.”
“How can you say that?!” I replied, exasperated with his point of view. “You have had god knows how long to pursue your dreams, to accomplish whatever it is you do or have done! Not everyone gets that chance, and there are sure as hell not nearly as many people who have, what is it, ‘one-hundred and eighty three years’ to actually live their lives! That kid lost what may have been fifty more years to live his life! He may have been able to accomplish a million more things in that time that you yourself have probably done, and now he’ll never get the chance to! The world will never know what he could’ve done with those years! Those years you helped to take away! How do you live with yourself?!”
“By remembering that Jeremy lived his life exactly as he meant to, and wouldn’t have wanted anything different. By understanding that you can live ten lifetimes and never find any kind of satisfaction chasing after something that may not even exist.”
“How can you know that?!” I barked back at him.
“Because fantasies… dreams… these delicate little notions we craft in our heads? They have a way of disappearing, just like rainbows, as you pursue them. You get old and tired, and you turn around and realize, it was never what you thought it would be at all. All it is, is a vain misunderstanding, the epitome of not knowing yourself enough to even know what it is you really want. Every dog chases its tail, and the only thing you accomplish by extending its lifespan is to give it more opportunities to do so.”
“How is that possible?” I asked. “We aren’t animals. We can learn, grow, understand.”
“But to what end? Most of you live your lives in a fantasy about what you want to be, rather than what you are. You live only to indulge in that which does not exist, while conveniently ignoring the reality that faces you every day of your pathetic lives.”
“What are you talking about,” I replied in a tone of disgust. His words had gone cold.
“Maybe I should tell you about one of my own kind who lived for her dream,” he said with a slight rise of his eyebrows and a tilt of his head, “A dream of love.”
“Is she dead too?” I quipped.
Once more, he ignored me and began his next tale. “Her name was Alissa. I knew her as a young girl when I was younger myself; in my late twenties.” He smiled, his eyes gazing off into the distant darkness, seeing whatever he saw there; clearly pleased with his reminiscence.
“She was inspired by me, of course,” he said as he fell to stroking his chin, looking quite proud of himself. I wondered if she knew about Jeremy, who also appeared to have been “inspired” by this fiend. “She loved my ‘passion’ for life.” He turned to me, meeting my eyes with his own. “Obviously more clear-sighted than yourself,” he intoned, as if reprimanding me in his self-righteousness for not seeing him the same way she did.
“We became close. I saw a fire in her, an unquenchable flame, and I nourished it, even as she nourished me and quenched my appetite for ever greater heights of passion. The nights we spent together, once she gave herself to me, you cannot begin to imagine…”
“You can spare me the details of your lust in bed, Mathis,” I interrupted him flatly.
“Oh I’m sure you’re just dying to know,” he replied with a smirk, “how she felt, how like thunder and lightning she was, arching back in her molten orgasmic pleasure, her screams filling the night, as she wrapped herself so tight around me…” He sucked in his breath through set teeth, closed together in the memory of their passion; clearly, he felt it as if it was just yesterday, instead of so long ago. “God, she was perhaps the fieriest woman I ever had in bed, and I jarred her sultry, sensuous form with a savage intensity that could’ve broken steel, even as she squeezed me within the coils of her trembling ecstasy.” He sighed at last, and remarked with a whisper to the midnight air: “It was to die for.”
I overtly rolled my eyes. “So what happened to her?”
“She died,” he remarked offhandedly with a shrug.
I glanced at him again. “Well yeah, I figured that.”
His eyes returned to mine, “No, not in the way you think.”
“Oh? What’d you do, make her a vampire too?” I gave him a smirk of my own.
“Yes,” he nonchalantly answered.
I cocked my head and arched an eyebrow.
“It’s what she wanted,” he responded, arching an eyebrow at me like I should’ve known this.
“Sounds familiar,” I kicked back, referring to the previous tale he told. He turned back to gazing into the darkness, and went on with his little story.
“She begged me several times to do it—to make her like…” he paused, “like me.” His head bowed at those final words.
“So you can make other people into… vampires, too?”
“Yeah,” he replied, his eyes flashing towards me. Then he clarified his tone, gathering his posture once more, “Yes, I can ‘turn’ others. I discovered it with her.”
“What was she like?” I was curious about this woman who apparently had immortalized herself in this creature’s heart (if he even had one) enough to affect him to this day the way she apparently did. When his gaze had drifted along in the current of his thoughts for several long moments, he began to describe her in earnest.
“She had long red hair. Straight sometimes, other times she curled and styled it. Luscious, silky to the touch, and something she washed it with always made it smell like… cinnamon. Spicy, sexy, young and vibrant; that was Alissa. Her lashes complimented her eyes, golden hazel, like cat’s eyes… always glowing in the dark, even before I turned her.” He smiled. “Red lips, sweet and full pillow lips… sharp, sexy nails that would make every hair on your skin stand on end if she lightly scraped them down your arm. Beautiful.”
After a moment spent basking in this image he had recreated with his words, he began again: “Summer’s eve it was, sometime—I can’t remember—July, I think it was. We were laying out under the stars, upon a beach in Virginia. She was in my arm, my right arm, and we were lying there, after riding around earlier. We had been at a gathering earlier that evening, a party of some kind. Guess it was for someone’s birthday, or celebration of some kind. I can’t remember.” He bowed his head again. “The perfume she had on that night lulled me into her seductive whispers like a sweet song, sung across the far reaching currents of my thoughts. Or maybe it was just her natural scent. She was so vivacious.” His eyes went to the stars. “The ocean suited her best, but she never fell in love with it like I did.”
“What happened?”
“She rose up, slid herself on top of me, her sensuous, supple warmth conforming to my body perfectly, her weight pressing down like the need that burned deep inside her. I remember looking up into her eyes, beautiful, bright golden hazel eyes, unnatural in that setting, and I remember them illuminated by and contrasted with the pale brightness of the moon, which shone like a sun that evening. So bright… so bright…”
He inhaled deeply and bowed his head with a smile, “The feeling, the sheer pleasure that she gave me that night was unbelievable. Rhythm; intensity; our bodies working together as I have only known once or twice since—she truly rose to her peak of elation, her hair reflecting that night’s magic in its wild, fiery strands, her hips and breasts rising and falling in perfect tempo with the crashing of the waves. Mortals go their whole lives without passion like she possessed that night. The beads of sweat glistened over her body, playing softly upon the steamy surface of her moistened skin; her lips parted, exhaling her deep, sonorous moans into the summer breeze, vibrating down through her like some charged electrical current; her body humming with the gyrations of her soul, calling me forth, commanding me to take her in the deepest way possible, to plunge myself deep inside her skin and draw forth the gasping, yearning spirit that cried out for release within.” I noticed a small motion in his fingers, as they curled up. “So I clenched my fingers around her hips, sliding them up over her back as I rose up, imprisoning her body against mine, and in the darkness, bore the glimmering message of her imminent release from mortality with the ivory shimmer of my enlarged fangs in moonlight. With my breath, like a balmy tropical breeze, playing upon her neck, warming it for the moment that was now upon us at the climax of our passion, I drove my fangs forward, closing my teeth over the yielding sweet flesh of her neck, and pierced her veins as she screamed and arched in wide-eyed pain and pleasure, flowing together with the succulent, crimson river that was sent forth into my waiting mouth, bathing my tongue in her taste.”
In the reflection of the luminescence of this night’s moon, I saw his eyes white and rolled back, as though he was once again in the throes of that passionate embrace that he had held her in that night, reliving it all over again before me. “You cannot know what it feels like, to do that to someone else; words, these clunky blocks of verbiage and crude patterns of a language assembled in chunks that oversimplify that flowing symphony of our minds; the intellectual stream of our thoughts; the emotional river of our feelings, condensed and cut out into ridiculously heavy shapes of letters and sounds; guttural utterances of a dialect that wields poetry with all the brutish finesse of a great stone club.” His lips contorted into a frown and he scraped his tongue along his top teeth, like he was attempting to clean the language he descriptively detested from its surface. Breathing in deeply, he continued.
“I drank from her, gorging myself on swallow after swallow of her precious life, my own body warming with the gushing heat of her body, the sticky wetness of her blood upon the buds of my tongue. My grip was iron, and even as her body trembled and shook, I held her fast, her little fingernails digging into and releasing my flesh in tremors of shock, ecstasy, and helpless anxiety. She knew she was being drained, and though I did not see them, I knew that her eyes were bright with fear and excitement, her lips parted, frozen in sheer awe of what was happening to her—what she always wanted, but now trembled at, not knowing where I was taking her. I could almost hear her mind in between the hammering of her heartbeats: ‘Am I dying? Is he killing me? Am I going to breathe—live—beyond this moment? Will I ever feel like this again?’”
“But all of those thoughts get washed away in the rush, the heart-pounding rush, of the moment. The embrace is all. And as I felt the steamy liquor of her throttled vitae gurgle into my throat, warming it like spicy rum in a cold sweat, I came alive for the first time in what seemed like an age—though I had only been a vampire myself for a few years at that time. I felt her body relax as she surrendered to my draining, collapsing against me, her paling skin melting upon mine like warm wax. I broke my crimson kiss, and whispered into her ear, ‘Shh, shh!’ as I slid my heated hand over the small of her back, running my fingertips over the fine, soft hairs there, “Shh… you’ll be just fine; just let that icy embrace wrap around you like a blanket. Feel it pump through your veins, slipping you deeper into the frigid sea of mortality, curling around your dying heart as though your insides were left exposed to the wintry chill of mid-January in the snowy hills of Vermont. Feel that solid ice become you, as the clock of your existence slowly, slowly, ticks to a stop… tick-tock… tick-tock… tick… tock…” He stood there, gazing into the shadows of the midnight air, like a player upon a stage, addressing an audience of ghosts, reciting lines from memory as he had done before, with all the bold resonance of a veteran who knows the lines so well he could pronounce them in his sleep.
“She died right there in my arms, drained of her blood, yet still I held her; my sleeping beauty, my porcelain corpse doll. The night enshrouded us in a blanket of secrecy and silence, cloaking us from all reality, all society as we remained alone in our embrace. I was about to leave her, pull out and away from her when I felt the piercing sensation of needles upon my back, like little razor tips, digging their way into my flesh, deeper and deeper, holding me fast in like barbed anchors, latched upon my back,” he turned to me and smirked, his eyes glittering with the jewel of revelation he was about to unveil.
“She had survived!” His eyes widened, revealing the astonishment he apparently had felt even then at this occurrence. I looked at him, perplexed, thinking to myself: Surely he must’ve expected this?
“She pulled back away from me for a moment, her eyes wandering into mine, reflecting amazement that equaled my own; amazement that reflected her fear and surprise, along with her whirling thoughts, questions and discoveries she was making, as a newborn into this world, grasping at things dumbly as they occurred to her. Her lips were parted as she apprehended this new existence, puzzled through it, but soon those thoughts of innocent curiosity gave way to a more familiar longing that I was more familiar with myself, and only now began to expect from her, even as it manifested in her expression.”
He glanced sidelong at me, from the corners of his eyes and muttered one word: “Hunger.”
“Pulling me close with an urgent need and forceful desire that equaled that of her carnal passion mere moments before, I found myself locked in an embrace of a different sort: one where her lips fell upon my neck and her new fangs pierced their way sharply into my skin, deigning to draw forth the essence of my vitality, as I had done to her! I resisted her advances, but the relative newness of her transformation had no impact on her strength, and I discovered, much to my additional surprise, that she was significantly stronger than before, physically, and with all the impetuous need of a child that knows what it wants and pursues it directly with brutal impatience and entitlement, she overwhelmed my initial efforts and sank her teeth into me, sucking forth my life in her thirsty lust. Her appetite had only increased with this transformation, which magnified her voracious spirit in ways I had failed to foresee. In short, if she was a woman driven by a hunger for life before, she had now become a creature utterly consumed by an unquenchable thirst for it that was nothing short of ravenous beyond reason. Her eyes burned with that insatiable desire forever afterwards, and truthfully, it is the only certain attribute by which I know her now.”
“What happened?” I asked, briefly wondering how this encounter ended.
“After the searing pain of her bite went through me like poison, I wrenched her from me, catching a glimpse of her wild, rabid eyes, bared fangs, hissing with resentment at denying her the succulence of her meal, blood dripping messily from her lips, resembling the salivating maw of a starving she-wolf stained in crimson. Shoving her down on the sand with a sudden heave, I only faintly registered the sharp streaks of pain that laced across my back from the scratching of her nails, and arched back, ready to put some distance between us. Before I could, however, her legs snapped around me, squeezing me tight in merciless fury, as she lurched up once more, and launching herself at me with a scream of hunger. I felt the sand stick to my back, firm and damp, as I realized the tide was in closer than I had realized. Desperation led to my next course of action, bearing her over to my left, towards the sea, her drooling mouth inches from my throat, ready to savagely tear it to pieces and drink the blood of my life. In the next moment, I had wrenched her into the forthcoming waves, salt and foam splashing up around us as I continued our rolling, twisting motion into the water.” His jaw had set, his face emanating the grim struggle between the two; the unwitting Maker and his uncontrollable Creation.
“With sand flinging up in clumps around us, the brine of the ocean washing over us, I wrestled her into the receding tides, pushing her gurgling, vengeful cries beneath the waves, her burning eyes like some Erinye staring back at me with the one animalistic need that consumed her. Lashing about, her grip on me started to slip, the crashing momentum of the breakers and relentless assaults of the tides further pounding into both of us, dislodging us from each other—which was my intention all along. I was an excellent swimmer, but I did not know about her,” he reflected, like he was yet attempting to gauge her ability to swim, searching back through the veil of lifetimes. “Once I felt myself jarred free, loosened from her grasping body, savage, clawing and scratching, I launched myself with a powerful push from the ocean floor back towards the shore, breaking free from the rolling tides, crashing upon the grainy sand, even as the breakers smacked into me, throwing my body about, leaving me to gasp and struggle for air while the sand and salt lodged itself in my skin and hair. I had the taste of the sea in my mouth, and the unusual taste of my own blood—quite normal really, as I have come to realize your own taste does not change as the rest of you does—but unusual in the fact that it’s not my blood I was, or have become, accustomed to tasting!” He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, mimicking the motion of a swimmer washed ashore, attempting to remove the sand and sea from his mouth, in between choking breaths.
“I swear to this day I can still recall the shrieks and throaty cries that burst from the ocean over the thundering roar of the crashing breakers that night.”
“What did you do?”
He merely shrugged, intimating that the answer should’ve been logical enough to figure out: “I walked away.”
“You left her there?”
“Yes,” he admitted plainly.
“Did… did she drown?” I questioned, wondering if he even cared.
“No,” he flatly replied in a tone that conveyed disappointment. “No,” he repeated with a drawn out sigh that could be faintly traced in the night air, “she didn’t die.” His eyes glimmered with thought, but there was something about his response; I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something else there, a hint of something—like he both expected the question and had repeated the answer so many times that it was drained of emotion. I realized that if one had lived as long as he had claimed to, telling the truth from lie in his expressions was a pointless exercise; he had years more time to perfect the blending of the two until they sounded and appeared exactly the same. Reading him was out of the question, if not a complete impossibility to begin with.
“She turned up some years later at a political reception I had attended in New York, back in the good ole days of Tammany Hall, Boss Tweed, and the rest of those lovable, but slightly corrupt, corpulent bastards,” he went on, smirking. “Some things never change.”
“Alissa was with some young European gentleman, from merry old England, judging by his accent, who happened to enjoy making smug remarks about our “frontier ways”, dirty politics, and civil unrest—we had just come through the Civil War, and Lincoln was dead. We had not intended to encounter each other there, she and I, but we soon found ourselves looking across the broad white round table into each other’s eyes, unexpected and suppressed enlightenment dawning in both of our features, or so I imagined,” he commented with a tilt of his head. “She said nothing about it, and neither did I, but I did have the opportunity to catch up with her a bit when she found me amidst the throng that Christmas that had gathered in the newly landscaped Central Park. Sheep were still there at the time,” he added, as a quirky little footnote.
“She spoke to me of the men she had gone through, chasing all over the world for a man who could sustain her passion for life, and fulfill her fantasy of matching her appetite for unabated pleasure. Frustration blanketed her words when she told me of the few attempts she tried to turn them—she never succeeded. The first time she tried was in Barcelona, and she had to flee the next evening because the young gentleman never woke up; she had drained him utterly. She fantasized about living eternally with a man she could love, who would love her back as fiercely as she drank in every other aspect of her life, and then spoke with bitter resentment of her eventual concession that there was no such man alive who could ever satisfy her dream, her desire.”
“Her eyes glittered with that same raw intensity that they had years before, but they were married to a crimson scowl now, pillowy glossed lips hiding the flash of feral, hungry fangs. The curtains of her blazing curls enhanced the beautiful resentment that radiated from her features, and she told me in no uncertain terms with hissing words that she would never forgive me for what I had made her become. A tear slid down her cheek as she turned abruptly away, lowering the long, thick lashes of her eyes, and I reached out and caught it with a subtle movement of my hand, keeping it poised upon my right index fingertip, turned to the side as it was…” I glimpsed a movement of his right hand, which he held up to the light, and beheld a silver chain, thin as spider silk, with a solitary diamond only about ¼ of a carat large in the shape of a tear dangling from it. Immediately I drew closer, mesmerized by this thing as he went on in his calm manner, “She resented me for not loving her, for not being the one she could capture the innocent fantasy she had as a girl, of having an immortal prince, a beloved, that she could love for all time without discontent or unfulfillment. She cursed me for the fate she endured, day after day, night upon night, of feeling that void open up within her, that eternal emptiness that came with the realization that the dream was even further from her now than it had ever been; she had turned into a starving corpse of crystalline beauty, longing for fantasy that eluded the dissatisfying reality of her endless life. She hated me, and cried because of it, knowing she was condemned, knowing she would never be rid of this body, this pointless energy, this everlasting beauty that weighed upon her now not as a blessing but as a hollow obligation, a tireless duty to appear as she did, and not as she was inside. She told me of the mirrors she broke, of the nights she screamed herself hoarse, and cried herself to sleep. She hated me with all the tired, weary bitterness of an ancient grudge, born by a woman who was already old before her time; a wretched creature who despised the taste of life, each experience souring in her mouth, inevitably hollow with the cobwebs of banal commonality matched with heartless odds. She fished the sea of humanity only to find that there were indeed a million fish, and the one she pursued was the more elusive for it.”
“The worst horror to visit her though,” Mathis remarked with a rise of his eyebrow, “the haunting apparition that resided deep in her soul, the one that was the source of all her grief, was this: When the years were done with her, when the centuries had their turns and danced the last spark out of her step, and worn her soul out with so much emptiness; only then, when she had become a skeletal creature wrapped in jagged cynicism, her tastes limited to varying degrees of bitterness, only then would she find such a soul, such a man, as could possibly breathe life into barren emptiness of her dusty spirit, and only then would she be so numb and blind, deadened to all the fleeting, fruitless possibilities of the world, as to be unable to feel him, recognize him, or know him, were he ever to appear in flesh and blood to her. She was too old, and already condemned, worn from years of tantalizing illusions, misguided hopes, and disillusioned thoughts, of desperate embraces and longing, bitterly cursed wishes, to be able to believe anymore, to possess any heartfelt faith in anything but the brittle reality she knew of, the false strength and empty promises delicately strung around like the lights that would soon come to mark each Christmas of 20th century society.”
“Did you try to help her?” I asked, feeling horrible for this woman who at first appeared to be the very Fury that Mathis had earlier described in his encounter with her.
“There was nothing to be done; shadows and lies were the velvet drapes of her twilight world now, sealed as tightly as living death in a coffin.”
"Drifting white, falling down
softly, silently, falling down
white and clean, here is seen
the beauty of falling snow
cold, crisp, it floats to the ground
and kisses the earth with its breath
now it comes, but soon it'll go
for the sun will come out again
so sing its beauty while it last
though pain and sorrow come as well
for joy comes through, in the end
and there's beauty in falling snow
yes there's beauty in falling snow"
Aria sat alone in the cold upper room on the small window seat. To her left was the window itself, and to the right a large open chest. As she sung, more to herself than anything, she gazed absentmindedly out the window. It was spring, actually. A bird was building its nest on the green-leafed tree outside the window. Colorful, carefully chosen flowers lined the walkways of the garden below. But Aria noticed none of this. Her eyes appeared glazed over as hand traced over the intricate designs on the wedding dress that trailed from her lap to the chest. And she felt the little pearls of embroidery on the left sleeve.
"Close your eyes, see the white
gathering all around you
flurries fall, heed their call
to the beauty of falling snow
all falls down to the barren earth
and nestles itself in its breast
leave all you cares for a small while
and enter the cold starless night
for soon again the day will come
and gone will be the snow
so seek its emptiness for awhile
for there's beauty in falling snow
yes there's beauty in falling snow"
A tear drop fell from her eye. She let it trail down her face, and with a small "plop" it landed on the white dress below. It was her dress, she had been measured for it- how long ago was it now? Six months ago? Yes, six months ago. She smiled as more tears began to fall. Everything had been wonderful then. It had been Autumn then. With colored leaves, cooler weather. He had taken her into the gardens, away from the eyes of her parents. They had walked all the way to the lake. And there, he had proposed. Her heart had leaped for joy. He had chosen her. All was joy for those weeks. Oh, it was so hard and painful to believe that things could change so fast from good... to bad... to worse. Yet, they had.
"Now it falls, flake by flake
embracing and pushing away
for a time, it will be fine
with the beauty of falling snow
watch it fall to the earth
from the heavens, the high sky
it covers all hurts for a while
yet remembers something is lost
but let it now all disappear
for the snow will go as well
and while its here, embrace it
for there's beauty in falling snow
yes there's beauty in falling snow"
She had sadly never worn the dress. Parts of it, yes, for fittings, but never the completed thing. Not that she could even now, even had she wanted to. The dress was still incomplete. Most of the skirt was done, but as for the bodice- the most of the base cloth was sewn together, but the embellishments were only partway done. A string of beads- pearls- still hung half off the front. But she did not want to wear it. She doubted she ever would. These days, she would be tempted to see if she could every so often. She would come up to this storage room, and open the chest with all her half finished things. And then, she would touch the dress. And cry. She never could get farther then taking it halfway out of the chest. She could never be the girl who was meant to wear the dress. Once, she had been, but never again.
"From the sky, to the earth
the white is drifting down
a gift to us from up above:
the beauty of falling snow
in the dark of the year it comes
and with the spring it goes
it holds the imprints that we make
then lets them fade away
so let your tears freeze in the snow
for sorrow can bring life
yes, let the droplets become the snow.
for there's beauty in falling snow
yes there's beauty in falling snow."
She finished the verse, sobbing all through the last line. Where was the beauty? It all still seemed dark to her, as dark as the day when he had died, when she had worn the same dark black dress she had on now to his funeral. There had been no light that day: the clouds had cried with her, letting the snow fall to the ground. Ever the weather seemed cold and distant to her as the weather- she felt abandoned, even by those around her. How could they understand the pain she felt! All her dreams, all her hopes- they had all disappeared that day; they were buried in the same soil that he was. And she was left with a wilted, crushed flower. Not even a rose- none were blooming then, not even one.
She cried again and looked down. She was now actually seeing the dress. As she stroked the beads and lace, she smiled through her tears. Life was a delicate thing, but at least for a while it was there. She did not regret a moment of it. There was still one more verse left. It was the verse that she always waited for, with all her heart and soul. As she prepared to sing, she gathered every little last bit of hope left in her. If only... If only... She began.
"The snow comes, and with it death
then it melts- its waters flow
that is the beauty of our life:
the beauty of falling snow
The Winter's death comes to all
but spring then gives back life
for though there's death, its followed by life
for the snow shall water the earth
so if you must, you may go
but come back with the falling snow
I've missed you and will always wait
for the beauty in falling snow
for the beauty of falling snow"
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