We Must All Make Do

Aeneas Carried His Aged Father On His Back From The Ruins Of Troy And So Do We All, Whether We Like It Or Not, Perhaps Even If We Have Never Known Them.

They Will Be Like Shadows, They Will Be Like Wraiths, Gray Members Of A Congregation Of Nightmare; Hark! His Long Wavering Howl . . . An Aria Of Fear Made Audible. The Wolfsong Is The Sound Of The Rending You Will Suffer, In Itself A Murdering.

Sad; So Sad, Those Smoky-rose, Smoky-mauve Evenings Of Late Autumn, Sad Enough To Pierce The Heart.

The End Of All Stories, Even If The Writer Forebears To Mention It, Is Death, Which Is Where Time Stops Short. Sheherezade Knew This, Which Is Why She Kept On Spinning Another Story Out Of The Bowels Of The Last One, Never Coming To A Point Where She Could Say: "this Is The End." Because It Would Have Been.

The End Of Exile Is The End Of Being.