It was a terrible thing, he thought.
It was a terrible thing he dreamt.
It was a still terrible thing in the morning, because this nightmare was real.
Sun. Morning. Awake. In bed.
It was a terrible thing, he thought, as his legs swung over the side of the mattress. Terrible, terrible, he thought, as he let shower water run down his body. Were the streams from the faucet, or from the sky?
Towel. Toothbrush. Sink. Mirror.
Terrible was the expression on his face, terrible were his eyes – were they dry? So terrible indeed, sang his lips which were pressed together so they could not sing at all. It was a terrible occasion, squeaked the floorboards, as he stepped into his suit.
Blue suit. Black coat. White gloves. Black hat. Terrible black hat.
Ever so terrible, snickered the gun in his holster. It was not for show, not today.
Drive. Drive, drive, drive. Drive in the rain.
A terrible ceremony, a terrible farewell. Terrible, lamented the wind. Terrible, seethed the ground. For the tendrils of people, it was terrible now, but when they departed in black cars, it stopped being terrible because that was that and that was all.
Terrible was the king, gone was the queen.
Yellow taxi. Bright yellow taxi.
"Take me away," ordered the terrible flame.
Taxi window. Streets. Pay a fine. Exit yellow taxi.
A far, far better thing. Far, far better indeed.
Green field. Say goodbye in a green field. Terrible was the gun in his holster.
A gloved finger on the trigger. Temple. Pull. Simple.
Every occasion has its funeral. Even funerals have funerals, it seems.