Soft, dusty light in yellow and blue and sad obscurity. Shaking hands heavy
with sorrow reaching for a pouch that doesn’t open easily. Out comes a knob
of cold, white, hard bone. Smooth and deadly and the key… yes the key.
Grip tightens. Pouch falls. Bone is in charge now, bone leads, bone feeds.
Where will it take the hands, the sad hands? We don’t know, we don’t know.
Far, far away we fear. Far from the dusty sad light, far from the dark blue
obscurity…. We are afraid. But maybe the fingers will dance and be happy
in a new place. Maybe palms will be strong and nails will grow smooth and hard.
Maybe the hands will be happy where the bone is taking them. But we don’t know-
they will go, and we are afraid.