An old man jumps at a flash of lightning hands gnarled and worn...a sense of dread...a pull...it's time finally it's time...a slow rise and stumble caught by a trusted wooden cane, a gift from long ago...it is time.... above the fireplace a box dark and dusty almost forgotten...it's not to late...inside a book, black hungry and dry leather...the smell of smoke, pine and lacquer....soon it Will be over, soon....it's raining..no time..it's cold...no time....but the wind knew....caught his very bones a mast his shredded soul a sail...it's not to late...is it?...the whispers a sirens call..soon...a blink a flash a roar...this place the last time once more.... drenched, drowned and ragged...a cane in one...dark dusty and dry...a book the other...it is time...the room as he left it a nightmare never confronted... finally....open is the book pages black, ashen and dry... white ink ablaze weeping with smoke..one last time...the old man breathes deep and sings..a rasp in tongues a duet in sorrow and loss....it sharpens, resonates,calls...be at peace....it is time...it wasn't there fault...it is time...the book, the smoke the dry hunger bellows and growls...I beg..be at peace...return home...a swarm of voices echoing...and then silence... crumpled to his knees hands chard ,the book untonched in front, the cain alight and ashen aside...it is done... Staring, fading...it's finally over...the Valentine...the last...still be still..softly... his heart....softly and still....finally whole and at peace....