Here in the fashionable quarters of the city,
Cold as the universal blackness of Hell's day,
The two opposing broherhoods are swept
Down the black marble pavements, Lethe's river,
First come the worlds of Misery, the small and tall Rag-Castles,
Shut off from every other. These have no name,
Nor friend to utter it... these of the extinct faces
Are a lost civilization, and have no possession
But the night and day, those centuries of cold.
Even their tears are changed now to the old
Eternal nights of ice round the loveless head
Of these who are lone and sexless as the Dead.
from "The Song of the Cold" by Edith Sitwell
Contemplating this kind of stillness. People will often try to scare you, rattle you with this or that worst case scenario. But they're just as ephemeral as you are.