The dying star bled dismally as we floated around it. If one were to trace our path , the lines would only slightly betray the wish to go away from this cosmic moroseness… to a livelier place. We were nomads, perpetually looking for our home for the moment, for the temperament, for the season, and sometimes without a reason… On the eve of this star’s death we contemplated the eternal night. Do we have a sense of belonging to the nothingness that is to follow? Perhaps everything belongs in and to nothingness, as the nothingness belongs in and to everything. This is not an eternal fight… no one belongs to anyone… it is rather an eternal love-making… conceiving ideas and dreams… birthing worlds after worlds. We are nomads floating around the cosmic spread, witness to the eternal love-making. We had seen stars take birth and we had watched them mature, we had been around as they had met their death. Some deaths were spectacular, dazzling… the last splendid song before receding into quietude. Some deaths… slowly wearing out… no ceremony to separate life from the end… Just a fading out into the oblivion
In the end all you want is a pen that writes well and a life that you've lived well.
Story Of The Footloose 