Five

To the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.

A memory flickered at him, like a little tongue of a flame. 

A nightmare.

Fair is foul and foul is fair, hover through the fog

 and filthy air

By heaven he echoes me, as if there were

some monster in his thought

too hideous to be shown

I have come against that enemy of mine,

And he is given over to me

He is finished and silent...

If only there could be an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent.

And it never faded, and it never got stale.

The End

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