Endings are like a string of Christmas lights. As time passes, one by one great things eventually dim and ultimately end.

And so she sat in the tub, trying to wash away the residue of her sorrows.

And the only thing I knew how to do was to hold on as tightly as possible and count every single second until I reached the last one. The one I dreaded most.
Sudden, violent, final.
The end.

There is always time – until we have no more.

The hour of spring was dark at last,
sensuous memories of sunlight past,
I stood alone in garden bowers
and asked the value of my hours.
Time was spent or time was tossed,
Life was loved and life was lost.
I kissed the flesh of tender girls,
I heard the songs of vernal birds.
I gazed upon the blushing light,
aware of day before the night.

So let me ask and hear a thought:
Did I live the spring I’d sought?
It's true in joy, I walked along,
took part in dance,
and sang the song.
and never tried to bind an hour
to my borrowed garden bower;
nor did I once entreat
a day to slumber at my feet.

Yet days aren't lulled by lyric song,
like morning birds they pass along,
o'er crests of trees, to none belong;
o'er crests of trees of drying dew,
their larking flight, my hands, eschew
Thus I’ll say it once and true...

From all that I saw,
and everywhere I wandered,
I learned that time cannot be spent,
It only can be squandered.

But if all good things come to an end What happens to the bad things? Do they turn into good memories Or do they stay bad And haunt you for the rest of your life?