The end begins, not with the first stain of red sputum on a white handkerchief. Nor by fingers grown numb with seizure from the heart’s decay. But, with an act that leaves a toy discarded in the nursery of early choice, reviving for abandoned deeds the doppel-gangers of dead youths, clothed with reproach and unfleshed figments of the mind’s high hopes of futures fenced in a child’s green field, that now is hedged; and ploughed, and grown bitter with a named and known crop.