A strange dream last night. Most of it
i've lost with my morning coffee, but
i remember i was inventorying books for
an estate sale...old books, some of great
value, most not... At last i found the
most important one of all--it was about
three feet tall, one or less wide, &
bound in black ermine fur, with tooled
leather pages of various dark colors.
All the type was gold inlay. The book
was a collection of aphorisms about death.
I opened it (the cover wasn't stiff, but
flexible, less like a book than a satchel,
say) & read a few on one page. Right before
the alarm went off & i woke, i remember
the last one, by someone with a Russian
name i didn't try to pronounce:
   "The Hour of Death arrives, now goes
 confessor to the Confessor, assassin to the Assassin."