As I stand in the shower, shampoo in my hand, I think to myself. If Life and Death were people, would they be friends, enemies, or lovers?

For surely they must be acquainted, having both been present in the first touch of the last second space had to be alone.

Or perhaps it is that same proximity which stills the air between what is given and what must, eventually, be taken back.

Even yet, they may find romance in the reality that impermanence and beauty share the same fleeting tide.

And as I stand in the shower, shampoo in my hand, I realize they are but one movement of the same force which removes and renews.

I feel this first touch somewhere in my head and shoulders.

                       ʙᴇ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ, ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴇᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ
                       ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴇʟꜱᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴅᴏ
                       ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ʏᴏɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ
                       ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ʀᴇꜱᴛᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇʀɢʏ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇꜰʀᴏᴍ
                       ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʟᴅᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ
                       ʙᴜᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ'ꜱ ʙᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ