The Epitaph

Requiescat in pace a reader of cloud-written stories, whose patience was legendary. Peace.

Left the party while it was still good.

Here rests a keeper of the old ways, whose words could heal. Safe harbor at last.

Here lies one who hated Mondays.

Gone but not forgotten a builder of invisible bridges, whose laughter made rooms brighter. The story is not over.

The moon will rise, the seasons turn, the candles of the stars will burn, and I will be among them all, a whisper when the nightbirds call.

Gone to find out what happens next.

A thousand days I might have had, a thousand moments, good and bad, but what I lived was quite enough to know that love's the only stuff.