"And you, I take it, are Red Dorakeen?" "That is correct. Anything I can do for you?" "As a matter of fact, yes. You can die." - Roger Zelazny

At the end of the season of sorrows comes the time of rejoicing. Spring, like a well-oiled clock, noiselessly indicates this time.

This day she’ll off across the sky on her own wild ways to show.…
There, in the worlds of the Life and the Death, the worlds that she used to know.
Now, some say her name is Mercy and others say it’s Lust. Her secret name is Isis. Her secret soul is dust.

I was cruising along on Tokyo Bay, and suddenly this was the answer, looming, the heaped remains of everything that goes down and does not come again to shore, life’s giant kitchen-midden, the rubbish heap that remains after all things pass, the place that stands in testament to the futility of all ideals and intentions, good or bad, the rock that smashes values, there, signalizing the ultimate uselessness of life itself, which must one day be broken upon it, not to rise, no, never, not ever, again.