Joy (cithra) wrote,
Joy
cithra

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How do you know you are an adult? When all the things you recall fondly from childhood have become well and truly destroyed, disappeared, or altered beyond recognition. That taste, ashes. Those tears, your fare to Charon that keeps the Styx flowing - did you really think the poor would be denied their passage beyond for something so petty? Not so - greed belongs to us, the mortal sons of dirt. Even the cruelest of the great ones has more compassion that that.

When the trumpet's note rings sour; when the path to your favorite grove is overgrown, or worse, heavy with ox-rut; when the strangers you ask know neither the names of your former haunts nor those of your bosom companions, then you must accept your youth is dead.
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