That’s where I sit tonight. Perhaps you are still, too.
It’s already begun. There’ll be torrents, and the building up of memory, and the betrayal of endings.
But not from here. It’s still, mostly, where I am.
I made some pretty stout vows about this day, some rash and utterly faithful declarations.
I questioned the merit of ploughing the field of any day that he did not awaken to. I have my reasons.
I do not this night credit any ability – any willingness – to go on into a time, a world, no longer adored as he adored it.
I did not meet him. I’m glad of that. I was in the same building once. I’m glad of that, too.
I saw him doff his hat. He bowed. What else is there?
This is not night. It isn’t day. This isn’t any kind of time. This is ending.
Patron saint, unawares.
Imagine: a master practitioner of sorrow, levelling with anyone who’d listen.
Levelling with the Makers. I suppose he just asked to be let out. They let him out.
How poor again, the world. And winter coming on.
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