It is a strange thing to die. I thought, pity me, to expect cessation. Lights out. I was afraid of it. I now see. That would be a mercy. This slow fall, this sinking, the coldness that comes over me…
I do not know what I am. What have I become? A ghost? More corporeal than that. A goblin, perhaps? A revenant? Like Hamlet’s father, there are things I cannot tell you. I know them when I know them, but when I try to speak of them, ah! All I can say is it is decreed. It must be so.
Tale Told 