Last words are often overshadowed by what follows them, squeals, shrieks or sighs. You'd know to hear for it, even expect it because it isn't a singular permanent thing in your vision, that floats incessantly in your waking torment. Instead, it's sudden, like a jerk to some old furniture, a bolt to a fan, that ultimately condenses to some poison. And this poison, like the repellants in the dark are of unknown devices, a dependable light and pungent scent. I wonder whom to pity, we who bleed or those who come seeking it . I find the idea of a resting place comforting, yet completely redundant. Because the moment we knew our limitations, we found those desirable. That when rot put on a mossy cover and leashed us with vines, we couldn't help but rattle our bones against our crypts, that swung yarns of cobwrbs with dewdrop milestones upon them, and a heart of dust. Our clothes drape us, our calendars age us, our breaths identify us. Nobody cares about being brandish
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