people kill things everyday from love to idle times. and some things die anyway from life to idle minds. it couldn't really hurt to die no more that it hurts to live. the people left always cry when there's nothing left to give. death is just the final sleep as dust to dirt we go. in little piles,that dirt we sweep and the wind outside still blows. and the wind kills time itself, it eats away this earth and everything once known as wealth the wind will turn to dirt. to know death is to know the wind that whispers through the trees, and death is just another friend blowin in the breeze.