Man," he said, "I'm not afraid of graveyards. The dead are just, you know, people who wanted the same things you and I want."What do we want?" I asked blurrily."Aw, man, you know," he said. "We just want, well, the same things these people wanted."What was that?"He shrugged. "To live, I guess," he said.
Michael CunninghamAbout author
- Author's profession: Writer
- Nationality: american
- Born: November 6, 1952
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Heads in the Women's Ward. On pillow after pillow lies. The wild white hair and staring eyes; Jaws stand open; necks are stretched. With every tendon sharply sketched; A bearded mouth talks silently. To someone no one else can see. Sixty years ago they smiled. At lover, husband, first-born child. Smiles are for youth. For old age come. Death's terror and delirium.
Philip Larkin