Slouching toward Nirvana

in this placethere are the dead, the deadly and the dying.there is the cross, the builders of the cross and the burners of thecross.the pattern of my life forms like a cheap shadowon the wall before me.my lovewhat is left of itnow must crawlto wherever it can crawl.the strongest know that death is finaland the happiest are those gifted with theshortest journey.