Nearer to the face of she whom will not lay claim. 
With unsurpassed pacienzia I await.
Those at the demesne shall miss you. 
If the truth be known, the moments shuffle along the March, unknowing. 
The throat of which a Drought has thought without remorse to possess.

    Your portraits shall accompany me.

I thank thee profusely, 
the words some Vitae as if a wound left unattended. 
And no, not suffering: 
rather a Restoration whence thus the penance has been committed. 
Your eyes the guardian at the Gates.

Permit me this solemn, unobtrusive observation 
- for without such There is Nothing. 
Strained not by malice throughout the course of this worship. 
I mean every word expressed, every thought delineated.

The final day holds much, a near-panic amidst the flurry of activity;
and my preparations call upon this trickle of time. 
If anything at all,
this poor fool by your Summons awakens. 

‘Til the end of this world, he remains 

Truly Yours,
der Sperre Francis