User:Old Dickens

A small black figure in a large black hat sets out across the graphite-black sands of the desert. He carries a Death's Head stick and strolls rather than strides. He appears to be talking; occasionally there are hand gestures. When we see him again, he is accompanied by a small group of other pilgrims as an Ephebian philosopher with students. Now and then some these fall to the ground flailing like madmen, or holding their stomachs and shaking. They soon rise and hasten to catch up, however, seemingly none the worse. As the group progresses toward the distant mountains it swells to a sea of figures that seems too wide too hear the center, but it remains coherent as it climbs the mountains.

On the other side of the mountains, which aren't so high or far away on a cosmic scale, there is a shorter procession to a house in the countryside. The small black figure goes in, shuts the door and sits down in front of a glowing screen. The rest of the crowd disperses to where they are supposed to be and inside there is a faint clickety-clack. On the glowing screen appear the words: "Well, I'm back."

Terry once told us that he had received letters from the terminally ill saying that they hoped he had got Death right; these would cause him to sit and stare at the wall for some time. I hope he got him right too.

(Written one gloomy evening years ago. I never expected to need it; wish I didn't.)

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Made a sysop for the many good contributions --Sanity 01:34, 19 August 2006 (CEST)