even falling knowing already he was dead, and how much I pray to myself I want not, ever,
to know this, how much I want to ask again why I must, with such perfect, detailed precision,
know this, this anguish, this agony for a departing self wishing only to stay, to endure,
knowing all the while that, having known, I always will know this torn, singular voice
of a soul calling "God!" as it sinks back through the darkness it came from, cancelled, annulled.