Like the man whose skin crawled as he unwisely fled up, up, up into the darkness, I fear that I have run out of stairs. The preparations are incomplete. The flowers are not arranged. The table is not set. The guests are still alive.
Yet, like that same hapless soul, fate leaves me no option but to stop, to take a shaking breath, and to turn. I’ll go with what I have.
Night falls soon. Where is Digger?
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