Alas! shall I now beweep me in these stanzas,

And see, by Charon’s side,

Death itself, indifferent to such circumstances,

The which shall it decide.

It lives. It awaits. It’s not within its role,

To select our cove.

That detail is unto it but a nudging shoulder

Some mere chance has hove.

It nothing serves to pray unto that olden statue,

To figure out its plans;

For it is nohow death itself in person kills you.

It has its hired guns.

Jean Cocteau