Death is like a river.
Or like a photograph of a river.
Or maybe a drawing of a photograph of a river.
Or it’s like a written description of the sound of leaves falling into the river.
Or perhaps it a chart showing how the rapids are strong enough to drown a grizzly bear.
Or else it’s like a crumbling mountain brought down by the wind as it changes directions, making craters in the area below,
And the ground surrounding the mountain is beaten down by sheer unrelenting force until it eventually caves in on itself,
And the land will forever carry the weight of that mountain, even as vines cover it’s crumbled boulders and rivers flood it’s craters.
