the man with the book....

He read the note and his heart tried to lift attempting to feel just a smidgen of hope, as the note intended, but no. Still nothing.

"Where has the boy i used to see in the mirror gone to?"

The expression on his face is an expression he wears every moment of every day, except for moments such as these. The street lamps are dimming, the sweepers have swept, the world is sound asleep, everyone but him it seemed. It was in these moments, and these moments only, that he felt anything at all. It was here in those dark and peaceful moments, when he was sure the world could not and would not see him, that a tear trickled from his sad, worn eyes, dampening the way for a flow of regret, torment, hurt, unanswered questions, loss, pain, innocence, confusion, love, hate, and anger rocking him gently preparing him for the immanent sleep. Praying that it will be his last slumber he wakes to start the process all over again.

Everyone thought he as dead, but what you don't know is that we are going to kill him there.

Everyone thought he as dead, they had all mourned outside his home, bringing flowers and candles, and tears of loss and misery. They had lost their idol, their obsession had fallen. Never again will he triumph in the amphitheaters and coliseums touching the hearts of millions of souls spanning across the world, beyond language and comprehension. He was their king, and he was dead. The marches have began and the mourning proceeds unceasingly. They'll gather at the temple in the morning. Everyone thought he was already dead, but what you don't know is that we are going to kill him there.

and then i floated away...