There's nothing I like more than waiting for roses to die. Wait, that's probably the wrong word I should be using, but waiting for that bright red to slowly change into the crunchy purples and browns gives me a weird satisfaction. And I think it's the right level of spooky and pretty. I've got into a bit of a routine of making roses last on my windowsill for well over a year. Normally Valentines ushers in the next victim.