As if the dead really do persist, even in a bottle of wine.

It's been a prevalent notion. Fallen sparks. Fragments of vessels broken at the Creation. And someday, somehow, before the end, a gathering back to home. A messenger from the Kingdom, arriving at the last moment. But I tell you there is no such message, no such home -- only the millions of last moments . . . nothing more. Our history is an aggregate of last moments.

To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.

They have lied to us. They can't keep us from dying, so They lie to us about death. A cooperative structure of lies. What have they ever given us in return for the trust, the love--They actually say 'love'--we're supposed to owe Them? Can They keep us from even catching cold? from lice, from being alone? from anything? Before the Rocket we went on believing, because we wanted to. But the Rocket can penetrate, from the sky, at any given point. Nowhere is safe. We can't believe Them any more. Not if we are still sane, and love the truth.

Meditating, meditating, meditating in remembrance on Him, singing His Glorious Praises, the noose of death is cut away.

For in death there is no remembrance of thee: in the grave who shall give thee thanks? / I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears.