Mourning

The worst kind of army has no number, and it descends on them like the light of the rising sun. It invades even the darkest corners of houses and leaves nothing behind, not even a sign of destruction.

He thinks it’s much, much worse for everything to just disappear as if nothing had existed in the first place, as if history itself was proved wrong and erased. So he tells people to start grieving before it’s too late; before there’s nothing left behind to be sad about anymore.

And the sound of mourners rise in a cacophony of unhindered despair and distant illusions, where everything that makes a person human is being poured out instead of kept in and weighted down with jars of wine and food. He listens for awhile before joining in and reducing himself to a voice like the rest.

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