It's not depression. Way worse than that. He has already made peace with the facts. He's waiting to die. Is he coming back, or rotting in a grave? Ashes? Oh, maybe there is a heaven. He'll find out sooner or later.
I once knew a man who couldn't escape his own head. He rode his tombstone through all facets of life. A piteous life spent inebriated on his own epitaph, Chasing each letter with a score of bitter nostalgia. Until he was complacent, and his entire life let out an errant cry. But he didn't realize that the wheel doesn't turn, Even though the road does.
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He rode his tombstone through all facets of life.
A piteous life spent inebriated on his own epitaph,
Chasing each letter with a score of bitter nostalgia.
Until he was complacent, and his entire life let out an errant cry.
But he didn't realize that the wheel doesn't turn,
Even though the road does.
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A name, if possible, would be cool.
I liked that very much.
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