For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil
This line of reasoning is woefully recurrent in my mind when it has the greatest potential to cause damage. “For who can bear the whips and scorns of time?” I sometimes ask myself the same question.
Job 7:1-7
Is there not an appointed time to man upon earth? are not his days also like the days of an hireling?
As a servant earnestly desireth the shadow, and as an hireling looketh for the reward of his work:
So am I made to possess months of vanity, and wearisome nights are appointed to me.
When I lie down, I say, When shall I arise, and the night be gone? and I am full of tossings to and fro unto the dawning of the day.
My flesh is clothed with worms and clods of dust; my skin is broken, and become loathsome.
My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, and are spent without hope. O remember that my life is wind: mine eye shall no more see good.
