ABOUT THE AUTHOR

At pace, at pace, I speed along, not stopping once to hear your song, and diamonds in the rough I sowed to pay for board in your abode. The aches and pains I feel once more are preferable to those bedsores. Our hourglass, it overflows, with grains of sand from long ago.



When I did die before I woke, the lord in mystic parlance spoke. It asked If I had seen enough to keep the lids of my eyes shut. I nodded once and shook my head, unable to decide which bed should hold my pose in future days: necrotic earth, sun's frozen rays. The lord now waited patiently, for it had been here just like me, and answers here aren't quick to come if one obeys the rule of thumb.