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Inky blackness; Not empty, But full–– Full of water. Dots of purple cynicism–– Grief, guilt, And just a touch of sulking–– Spreading, drifting... "Meaningless, meaningless! Everything is meaningless; Life is never without pain, And all are doomed to die. Is it better to never be Than to live in torment, Suffering inevitable miseries While taunted with false hope Only to have even this snatched away By the inevitable end?" A fleck of yellow; The splash of light. A tiny yellow dwarf Burning like a spark Somewhere in the darkness... "Lift up thy weary eyes! Where came Good and Evil from? They cannot be human contrivances; They are far too heavy to be our inventions. We feel their weight daily, And when we stumble, We feel the fear gnawing at us. No matter how Impossible the Standard, Yet the Standard is universal." Purple and yellow Drifting in the dark, And where they collide, They make Magenta... "In this world, You will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the

[Tuna was our Samoyed rescue dog, who died of internal injuries a year after being hit by a car] We carried her out on a oaken bier gilt with gold, painted in red, drawn by five horses and—no, instead We carried her out on black velvet strung over two poles, accompanied by minstrels playing solemn dirge. No, we carried her out in our arms, blood-soaked, face frozen in a scream, and laid her in a wheelbarrow. No, she ran out, danced lightly down the steps, smiled back at us one last time and was gone. The day Tuna died—her given name was Moonglow but who the hell wants to be called Moonglow?—was mid-winter, but, unwontedly, unexpectedly, a day above freezing. We wheeled her—four eunuch slaves carried her high in her palanquin— the carriage-horses neighed and stamped their feet in the cold—Tuna ran happily up to the long grass by the vegetable garden and waited for us to reach her, slowly pushing the garden wagon through the snow, carrying shovels. The day that Tuna died it