In thought and in death, aspirations drop and sink. Downwards. Oh the weight of azure sky that rests on my shoulders, oh the bitter aftertaste of sweet freedom, oh the earth upon which I have stood, I become aware of you. In thought, my gaze falls. Before sweet fantasies find me again, I pay the price in thought. It’s never a neat transaction. There is always a spark that evades the eye. Before long, the spark has inspired a fire again and I am ashes again. In thought and in death aspirations drop and sink.
In the end all you want is a pen that writes well and a life that you've lived well.
Story Of The Footloose 