Epigraph

Oh the torment bred in the race,

the grinding scream of death,

and the stroke that hits the vein,

the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,

the curse no man can bear.

But there is a cure in the house,

and not outside it, no,

not from others but from them,

their bloody strife. We sing to you,

dark gods beneath the earth.

Now hear, you blissful powers underground —

answer the call, send help.

Bless the children, give them triumph now.



– Aeschylus, The Libation Bearers Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still. For they must needs be present, that love and live in what is omnipresent. In this divine glass, they see face to face; and their converse is free, as well as pure. This is the comfort of friends, that though they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are, in the best sense, ever present because immortal.



– William Penn, More Fruits of Solitude