Each Man Kills The Thing He Loves ; excerpt from the Ballad of Reading Gaol
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
~ Oscar Wilde
sometimes I feel like my “stuff” is a sentient being that keeps multiplying. I finish up a room, walk out and fill up the car. I come back in and, it seems, there is stuff there that was not there before.
At this point I am beginning to wish I was a Turtle… I like Turtles :)