Droppings of another kind. His identity.
His credits listed sin and sinners.
The footpath is paved with artists.
Off in the distance past the gulley and the sounds of children playing, it can be heard approaching. Millennia ago, Death started its long slow march towards us, bringing with it all kinds of sickness and pain. The kinds of sickness that struck a man down, and molded woman into parchment. In the old days, they attempted to stave off Death’s approach. They threw up walls and obstacles in its path. They destroyed themselves, putting their own lands to torch just to prevent Death from getting a foothold in the hills. They called on religious men and magic women to prevent its occurrences, but its approach was never halted, and it almost imperceptible grew closer and closer. Generations died under its shadow.
No. No. No. No. Please, no.
Now our concepts complied with regulation.
The words spoke of her absence.