When life has passed and the noise of dreams fades from echoes into an utter silence, a thought might remain, a lone redoubt in the darkened wastes. Dogged, unchanged, even time might weather itself into a gentle and forgotten breeze before the unweathered face of this last, this very first, idea. Then, when all is silence, I think a voice will speak in the darkness to trouble yet again that lifeless and starless universe. All will rebound with the hue and cry, and the idea will grow silent again until it might be heard, until all is dead and listening.
Will Be Heard
Tale Told 