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We saw a knotted pendulum, a noose, a strangled woman swinging before our eyes. The king saw too and with heart-rending groans, untied the rope and laid her on the ground. But worse was yet to see. Her dress was pinned with golden brooches, which the king snatched out and thrust, from full arm's length, into his eyes--eyes that should see no longer his shame, his guilt, no longer see those they should never have seen, nor see, unseeing, those he had longed to see, henceforth seeing nothing but night...to this wild tune he pierced his eyeballs time and time again, till bloody tears ran down his beard--not drops, but in full spate a whole cascade descending in drenching cataracts of scarlet rain.

--Aeschylus
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~~THE THOUGHT OF SUICIDE IS PURE POETRY;
THE ACT OF SUICIDE IS A WASTE OF A POET~~

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