Oh, what a vain, wretched hopes I had standing in that cold ossuary. What delusion had led me to believe my mistress still drew breath. I’d seen the cold, pallor of her face. The sightless gaze of her flat, unmoving eyes. She had gone into that place all souls fled when the mortal coil was shed.
Yet, here I was. Standing at her vault in the dead of night, believing with all my pathetic soul that she had not really fled this world. Stranger yet, I could not say why I thought she still lived. Not with any clarity or understanding that would yield any meaning should anyone inquire.
Such a folly it had been, becoming so intimately acquainted with my mistress. Her siren’s allure drew me as surely as Odysseus, only I had no sailors to restrain me from answering that tantalizing call. Surely, I have met a doom worthy of Homer’s epic at the hands of my mistress. And, still, I stand at this mausoleum, this sanctuary of death, and hope for a life that has utterly destroyed mine.
Oh, what wretched hopes.