Death is not a silent affair; the sobs of the living resonate above my
coffin. I ponder the manner of my demise, never the timing, for each
of our ends have their set dates. Is that the reason why we bring
flowers to the grave, to compliment the date?

When we close our eyes at night, I know a piece of us dies, as a
fragment of our essence fades, dreaming to survive into tomorrow.
Perhaps those who choose suicide are merely those who forget to
wake up again—lost and still trapped in the darkness, searching for
the light, yet some remain forever in the dark.

Death is not a silent affair; anyone's sudden death brings the sound
of tears.