Six hours and thirty minutes of your last forty eight hours had passed.

Uncle, are you well? Does it hurt as these things do?

It’s thirty minutes to midnight, still I feel more awake than I have yet been all my life. 

Are you sad? Afraid and discontent, uncle? 

Morning approaches, yet the eyes won’t close and the body won’t lay for even a second. The restlessness comes not from insomnia’s grasp, but a truth that has since bubbled and grown. Truth that should one fall into the night, dozing and unaware, the day of morrow would yield nothing but sorrow.

Is this fear, perhaps?

That should these eyes blink their first in the morning, yours would have blinked its last. 

Six hours and thirty seven minutes of your last forty eight hours had passed.

Why must the kindest hearts thrash so hastily towards its end? Why do only the most worthy of contenders, for the title of greatness, never finish this race? 

Twenty seven hours have passed, since the moment you breathed your last.

You are no longer here to deter me from the hollowness, we never even made it to our breakfast coffee. A promise four months old, yet another date of reunion set in eternity. 

Do you hear the lies they now echo to comfort me, uncle? 

They say God has called you home, for his love of you was just too great. 

They say you were loved, just too much, and so you were called to your final resting place.

Do you believe that, uncle? Does that mean our love held not enough value to buy your stay? Don’t worry, uncle. I suppose this one is just another pitiful excuse, of powerless minds, to justify an unjustifiable. 

To all who worship the omnipotent entity, far up in the heavens above. 

I answer the singular question, is this the doing of your all loving god? 

The creator of life, a reaper of misery and dread in the hearts of the love-giving? 

To all who worship the omnipotent being, atop a pearlescent throne above.

 I harbor the singular will to all who come to console me in his name. 

Fuck your god