Dean Ponoroff is pacing wistfully by, suspenders as usual, under the tree. The sun trickles down through the leaves and angles, highlighting him as if it's his final contemplative waltz. He waves back.
Bob Dylan's - and I'm not kidding you - "I'm Not There" is cranked up in the headphones, crooning "...but I'm not there, I'm gone" as if on cue. The BE II outline sits neglected as I type.
I feel as though my horse, in this finals battle, has long since been shot out from under me in the initial charge. And having lost my sword, my shield, and my dagger in earlier skirmishes, I am left with my bare hands, scrambling forward, looking to do what damage I can. The information seeps out, leaking faster, it seems, than I can stuff it back in.