In attempt at eradicating all trace of himself from that narrative within which he had until this exact moment been confined, and honouring his decision to burn the house and all its content down around this fresh absence of himself, here now his silhouette framed by that same burning house, itself isolated at such remove that by the time the flames were elsewhere noticed it was already halfway perished, those whose profession it was to extinguish such arriving only in time to recognise the folly of their pouring water out upon its embers.
He walks away, only adrenaline affording him any requisite heat in his lack of shirt, with the already self-penned epitaph carried upon his own voice
deleted name: It has to be as though I never actually was.
walking on, on and on until at the eventual last, beneath the now fastened streetlit noose and with some finality,
deleted name: Ecce pendu.
