“Death is the illusion we present when we can no longer live,” the white bearded lector concluded. “A dream we share of dreamlessness. A dream of never waking.”
A scattered illusion of clapping followed, and the lector’s worn eyes gazed out at us with the stern severity of sorrow. It was the illusion of tears without tears. I wondered if he would see me in the crowd, recognize me as I recognized him. No, it was too dark; or, the illusion of the room was too dark for the illusion of his weeping but tearless grey eyes.
Illusion. That had always been his favorite word. He knew all the world’s a stage and the mind the director; how he longed to close his eyes. He was tired of the show.
He was moving his papers off of the podium and back into the darkness of his satchel. I called to him.
“Brother Micah.”
He stopped. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he squinted into the darkness of the auditorium.
Tale Told 
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