To the Deaths of Sublimity!

From Virginia Woolf to Sylvia Plath.. From Ernest Hemingway to Edgar Allan Poe.. All defecated at the face of life, endorsing death with a choice. The world (and especially an impulsive jerk like me) will always be curious about the birth of eternal bliss that grows as a fetus in the womb of suicide. What’s so grand about this dismay on grounds of flesh and blood mimesis, is the void unexpectedly created by fame and reputation. Such low is the failure of materialistic mimesis. And then there are followers like us, upholding the glory. But on a wider frame, sheer inanimates to feel the deepest tears. But gladly, light is speedy enough to lit the bulb of enlightenment. Bliss for the readers sake, at the least of all dark vibes. What kept them alive, are that blotted ink of randomness and those scribbled pages of perceptions. Literature, the angel with invisible wings indeed. Arts and Immortality are perhaps the most promising couple on earth. And I salute a wow!