The Despot

The one who, after every announcement of someone’s death, eats more.
— Elias Canetti

A very rich man who advocates killing the dead, burning every mummy he can buy. He. He
alone. Wants. His mummy. She might whisper in his ear on those cold nights when his mind has a mind of its own and there is Nothing to fear. And slowly as the light from the last star is
extinguished, and its final wink illuminates the is-no-more, he dies. All is forgotten in the grave
glorification of his strutting and fretting an hour upon the stage, telling tales like an idiot and
thereby lighting fools the way to their own dusty demise. Alas, methinks, it signifies something,
and will be heard once more.