The day before the festivities, torpor settled
Over the feeling that something was coming.
There's nobody here but us, sang
The composite parts together. Then they
Struggled to make good on the empty hours
Filched from commonsense death
By reading and writing sufficiently. The day
Ended anyway, the ends of twenty-thousand
Plus days, two-thousand eight-hundred
And sixty-one weeks preceding it, although
Only body could credit it and only mind
Could calculate. Self had no days, really,
Never sure about annihilation in sleep
And reconstruction, moment to moment,
By body infected with mind. Poor self.
Only thing ever to truly come from nothing,
Only thing ever to truly return. Meanwhile
The village on the lake prepared for the fair.
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