The two and a half centuries since are not worth telling, much less reliving. The Poulsen treatments to keep the instrument alive and waiting. Two long, cold sleeps in illegal, sublight, cryogenic voyages; each swallowing a century or more; each taking its toll in brain cells and memory. I waited then. I wait still. The poem must be finished. It will be finished. In the beginning was the Word. In the end…past honor, past life, past caring… In the end will be the Word.
