Then on your tombstone, where you only get a little bit of space to sum up your life, some wax-faced creep chisels a set of meaningless numbers instead of poetry or a secret love or the name of your favorite candy.
In the end, all you get is a few words.
Mots clés death epitaph simplicity tombstone realization
The rain fell like dead bullets.
Scott NicholsonMots clés rain depression noir bullets crow-like
Some artists are normal people who just happen to make things because we can't figure out how in the hell to communicate with people.
Scott NicholsonMots clés communication artists
...people never gave away their hearts, however willing or desperate or lonely they were. Hearts always had to be taken. By force or trickery. Love was murder, the infliction of death by cardiac theft, and the alternative was even worse.
Scott NicholsonMots clés love
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