Dark Times

I wonder if it's a natural function of getting older, this
feeling of foreboding. Sometimes, the departed days stack
up like kindling, waiting for the final flame to ignite them
and turn them to ash. At other times, I feel that I can see the final
sands spilling from the hourglass, and I want to find a way
to stop them, but I can't. I can almost feel him coming
now, the Old Jester.

Maybe I'll hear his footsteps when he finally
arrives, and I'll know that my time has come, or it could be
that he'll sneak up on me like the coward that he truly is,
and it will all end in the blink of an eye before I even realize that it's
happening. That would be better, I think. I guess that I'd
rather not know, so that probably makes me a coward too ...


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