On his knees, my host wept aloud, for everything. He wept for that which had been lost and would not again be found. He wept for the time which would not replenish itself. He wept for the sickness which ate out the interiors of his world and left it as a cracked shell of its old self. He wept for the dreams washed down the pit of life. He wept for all that would come, all that he could not yet see or know. He wept, even more, for the man he had become. And his weeping was attended by the words dripping like poisoned rain from the mouth of his enemy who lay beside him: Yes, Lord, you are
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