I am not full of happiness. Not, of course, that I predicate that blame in any particular direction. God had his hand in it, and I think that’s enough. Of course, the devil isn’t in the details - that’s a lie. Someone’s genius is in the details, and it certainly isn’t any Harvester. If I see a gentle beauty in our violence, forgive me - the good and ill come so intermingled, I sometimes call darkness light.

So there - my requiem. I see finality in all this. Drifting is, after all, part of mortality, and mortal I am. Still - the final cords. The final cords! Dare I break them? What of the sacredness of their memory?

But no, the scarlet deserves its chance to bed elsewhere. And in the moment, the cord is a pain too hot to bear alone: every child breathes its own breath. Do you see paradox in that? As do I. As do I.

I will profane the memory with the dream of another. That is the way of life. Graves bear their own witness; perhaps neglect, perhaps not. But I will not build my house in the shadow of Vesuvius and hope to prosper. I will not.

Then, accept this. Your worth is measured in diamonds - mine in dust underfoot.

Hope, then, that Yaweh breathes life again into motes and particles. The body was made to beathe, no? Then let it, free of this. Dream dreams of diamond. I will be sculpting, elsewhere.

Let me speak this into your nerve endings - with breath the Lord gives, and with breath the Lord takes away: blessed forever be his names.

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