The Light goes out slowly, like a candle whose wick got too short and there's nothing left to burn. The Light burned fast and nobody seemed to realize it was finite. but it was. The Light wasn't always burnt out. The Light had potential. The Light was going places. The Light had ambitions beyond the candle. The Light saw a fireplace and longed to spark a flame like that, a flame... that meant something. Sometimes there were dreams of the Light being a star, or a meteor, or something bright enough for others to make a wish on. But the Light is going out. The Light will go out. But when the Light goes out-  will anybody really care?