You have seen me; you looked into my eyes. I thought, for a moment, that there was recognition, a dim light in a sea of darkness. I thought it was the North Star shining down on me, or the hand of God reminding me that hope still exists.

But it doesn't.

The stars themselves are dead. We see them as ghosts. It is in memory that we save them. I hope to be a star; to be remembered after my body finally gives. I think it would be beautiful.

I often wonder if you will return. I spend long nights, invisible, waiting for your gaze. The sea passes over me; businessmen and women; somebody's father; a loving couple. My stomach turns. Is it not one of the greatest cruelties of desire that, forgotten and cast aside, repressed and hidden, it turns sour? Fulfilled, we drink the milk of the gods, but lacking, we are covered in the rancid waste that falls after the gods of this world.

The mice and wicked feed on recycled dreams and fantasies. It is all we have. Entropy itself ensures that the scraps we scavenge will be dirty, soiled-- destroyed.

You turned away in disgust. I saw that too. But to turn away, you left me with hope.

I write these words as my body fails. It is my only hope that you make me a star by reading these words. This is my epitaph. This is the whole of my law.

Thus ends the epitaph of the servant of forgotten gods.