Done.
Done as burnt toast.
Done as a charred steak smoking on a grill.
Done as that exam I wrote today, with a cramped hand and shaken nerves.
Done as the leaves, now fallen from the trees and black with decay, becoming one with the earth.
Done as the corpse, now lying alone in her coffin.
Done as the whisper of a lost lover, whispering through the trees in the early morning.
Done as my soul on a Friday.