Twenty ticks and eleven tocks into a man’s day, the fifth of seven days for him to see the flames of those he loved extinguished becoming vapors in the wind. The unexpected storm carries away the souls of so many he loved, knew and connected. Standing at the sites of engraved eulogies, he grieves; not just for the loss but also for the opportunities missed.

Loneliness conceived from the womb of absence.

Life itself now a dying breed.

He grieves until the end of the falling rain.

The fifth of seven days is now complete.