There is no content, only a deep ache in my bones and joints, little reminders that I live and the Reaper has not yet claimed me. And so, the author must rest until old fingers can type and old hips can sit without protest. Today is done, but tomorrow holds promise and may possess more energy.

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William Shakespeare, Sonnet 73.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see’st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest …

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My apologies, your patience is requested.