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"Cuando se acerca el fin", escribió Cartaphilus, "ya no quedan imágenes del recuerdo; solo quedan palabras." Palabras, palabras desplazadas y mutiladas, palabras de otros, fue la pobre limosna que le dejaron las horas y los siglos.

Natura deficit, fortuna mutatur, deus omnia cernit. I was beginning to find it natural, if not just, that we should perish.

Centuries as yet unborn within the dark womb of time would pass by thousands over that tomb without restoring life to him, but likewise without adding to his death, and without changing the fact that he had been.

Little did I know what strange labyrinths grief contains, or that I had yet to walk therein.