In that last twinkle of life, that indefinite wrinkle that clouds our senses turns us into saints. And, as a sinner, all I can hope for is youth.
As the hour glass turns inside out I'll stand there laughing at that stupid reflection.
Feckless, but not forlorn I can already smell it fading...
Fading into the singularity of the great nothingness I feared, it becomes silly and I become more and more fond of it.
I know what you'll mean when I can stop listening.
Just stop talking and you'll know too.