How weary you are. How time has torn at you. Still, I look in your eyes, there is some life there, light like stars. You will keep fighting, I think, until the very end? So it must be. Well, draw your sword again, cut through the malaise; the monsters bleed ink, and the sky is white overhead. Write your words upon heaven, O tired mortal, and see if they will not live forever.
If they are true, the words you bleed… but there is no end to this task. Why does the writer seek rest? Rest is in the grave.
Tale Told 