I must have passed by those houses, gaunt and lonely looking, a thousand times on that stretch of road. Never once before did I see them. Now my once indifferent eyes were open, seeing everything. The sky was a grey dome and the dipping, dimmed sun struggled. There was the swirling of the lightest snow. As all I’d been oozed out of me, I came face to face with my own mortality. I was not afraid. I was surprised by this. I accepted it all with the calmness of a surgeon’s hands. Tallied up in the book written by man, I’d been a failure. No wealth. No mark would I leave for posterity. But I was not sad. There was music and there had been you. You.