We are created by being destroyed.

The humiliation I go through/when I think of my past/can only be described as grace./We are created by being destroyed.

literature will lose, sunlight will win, don't worry.

I wish my father could be around.

This is no occupation for an adult who can look other adults in the eye, carry his own weight, and count himself one of them.

I basked in you; I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love. And death doesn't prevent me from loving you. Besides, in my opinion you aren't dead. (I know dead people, and you are not dead.)

Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche?