There’s such a haunting beauty in the way you dismantle comfort and force the reader to confront what we so often avoid: that our time is finite, and meaning isn’t handed to us.
Francois Villon in the Middle Ages shared some of these feelings in his poem "Testament" before he was hanged as a thief. "Where are the snows of yesteryear?" is a line from it.
Well said! Make every minute count.
There’s such a haunting beauty in the way you dismantle comfort and force the reader to confront what we so often avoid: that our time is finite, and meaning isn’t handed to us.
Francois Villon in the Middle Ages shared some of these feelings in his poem "Testament" before he was hanged as a thief. "Where are the snows of yesteryear?" is a line from it.
Mon Dieu. Thanks!