Standing before the black, he sweat.
Before that infinite, swelling abyss, he sweated.
There was nothing for it now. . .
. . .nothing but to jump.
A voice.
Memories played.
He had forgotten one account.
He would have to settle it now.
Whispering, as one whispers before something he does not know, the man impregnated the darkness with his voice, his voice rasping on the cusp of sound:
I can’t hold you no more, my child
you’ve grown, and I’ve grown old
my child, my child, you know I must move on
We can’t hold each other no more
And in the end he prayed she would hear,
he prayed, at least, she would know.
He hoped she knew that he had to go;
they could not hold each other no more.
Tale Told 