I am thankful for the breeze that blows. That is what I want to say to the Reaper, I think, when he comes for my soul. It is a simple truth, not some wind of change am I indebted to, but a simple movement of air, whose stroke upon my face gives me a slight comfort. But if I were to hold my composure, to remember such a phrase upon the hour of my reckoning — perhaps Death will think twice of me, that this is a man who has heard the tune of mystery before, and can hum a bar or two himself.... I know not what lies for me past the nil point of being, but as I can, to my last, I desire that I craft some design from the spinnerets of life — one that is worthy of That which made me. With every erg that is granted me so that I may of motion, let me not casually let them drift past all the chances that come only once. Let me end, if not with a spectacular crash, with the note of a song that haunts the memory like a lost love, far away.
