oh but for the grace to die in a place where there are no sounds of the joviality of humans in their careless celebration of reckless progression. this place high in the mountains, that body collapsing into a bed of pale green, that ancient mind accepting the gaze of the dark circling bird, those lungs absorbing one last breath tinted by sage and then all is still but the wind and just as the flapping insect ignorant of the change it's wings will make across the world, this lucid release of life will affect the thought of someone somewhere be he the man kicking the dog from the porch or the painted woman sleeping on the golden bed.