The ending crept up upon me suddenly, amidst the revelry
yet I did not note its attendance.
Too caught up was I in the crack of flesh on flesh and the
sweat of sweet debauchery to take much notice.
But had I known that the ending's come, that the torrent that
had once flowed so mightily was about to slow to a trickle and
then die, what would I have done with that reality?
And what of such endings, whose presence is announced so
abruptly? What does one do with the rude certainty and
bittersweet memory?
It's not about choices, for choice is an illusion.
It's not about honor, for that perished long ago.
It's not about conscience, for it consumes leaving nothing.
What then does one do, when the ending's come?
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