“The song says something about not talking about me when I’m gone,” she whispered in his ear. “But I think that’s utter nonsense. Do talk, please,” she entreated.
He kissed her gently on the lips. “And you think the same of me,” he said as he looked up at the sky. Thunder and lightning were flashing wildly, giving rise to morose and solemn topics. It was as if nature was lighting a bonfire around which to tell scary stories.
“The roses in spring, the way the snow looks when it falls for the first time and my favorite songs,” she continued. “Talk, oh, just talk.”
Etcetera 