The way someone dies really doesn’t matter. Whether he’s claimed by metal or fire, through external ruptures or spontaneous combustion, or whether she breaks down from exhaustion (Contrary to popular belief, it is men who are consumed, who implode, from emotion.), the outcome is still the same. Someone is dead, and someone else isn’t.
Probably the most pertinent phrase ever written by a man (apart from “You have given me language, And the profit on’t is, I can curse”) is “The good men do is of’t interred with their bones.” Now, I’m not, I’ve never been, one to seek out a spirit or other essence that might live on after a person. Most of the dead—I include nearly all men and the person whom, I will soon cease to be—are best left buried. Most, in fact, would soon be forgotten had they not left behind—or someone hadn’t made—tangible monuments to them.
Whether they’re streets, bridges, churches or other machines, they remain as names. In time, people only know the name—whether it’s on a sign or enshrined in speech.
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