And so love doesn’t die or end. It lingers like a sweet summer breeze from a bed of wilting flowers. Some live, others rot away, but the fragrance remains.
We’re mortal souls in borrowed bodies. What lies before birth or after death is irrelevant.
Because love, like music, will outlast us all.
I have no idea where this came from. I was writing one of my essays and it just wrote itself. It's really quite maudlin, but it's true, isn't it?