I saw the morning come, I saw the empty dawning of the first morn of death. How bitter a day that started this way, when the red light turned to green and the first breath ended in a rattling gasp. Sometimes the ender regrets his work, sometimes he makes mistakes. Sometimes he feels guilty. But still he cannot stop. He does not know anything else, any other way. I took him, I took him, and her, and him ... All belong to me now, pictures on a wall, trophies on my belt. But what does it really mean to a forest of tombstones and a society of bones? What does it mean to the carrion crow and the blinding light of grief? If only the rains would come and wash the blood away. It has dried and turned cold, and sticky. It clings, and reminds him of old mistakes, old things he wishes he could have controlled and could never have. Isn't that a shame? The reaper considers his ages, and counts the days to retirement, hoping that someday he will look up and see that someone, finally, has come for him. And he will be able to walk to the green, and listen to the fiddler, the fiddler whose concert tickets he always gives to his own. So will you take his hand, and let him take your pain away? One life's meaning satisfied paid for in the ending of pain, the touch of Morpheus upon their pale brows. And what do they care what happens to their flesh once all connection to it ceases? What do they care what the persistence of flesh is to their slayer? Come and lie in the rain, let it wash the lamb's wool from your fur. Your feet are torn and ragged, your blade is dulled, your teeth ache. Time enough for ending, time now to contemplate what could have been if only there had been room for change.

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