Tonight, I dedicate a story of a mere hundred words to a comrade who leaves, friendless, even when he believes a friend could exist worthy of his definition. He fought the good fight in a benighted time and place where only struggle could be called 'good'. Unto him alone, two enemies weren't enough. There had to be a third.
Tomorrow, I will pay no more respects for now the road forks and honor cannot be shared on thin threads. Tonight, I enter the Kafkaesque burrow. He takes the Faustian high ground. This is my word.
"Why aren't you crying?" Lolo asked as they cemented off Papa.
"Don't know, Lo."
"Listen here, you were a baby when I died. They signed my certificate. The blackest tunnel I walked, with only a dot of light at the end. What do I find there? A screen! Damned TV, showing just another tunnel, another light! I couldn't smash it. I ran back, lived to a hundred, buried my son - hell! - with you who knows nothing!"
He crumpled off. My hot eyes drowned in their dark lids. I hear only his loud, sore baston fading. I must call him mad.