My last Days in Limbo

As I stepped through the threshold at Madame Marie's, she began to tell my fortune. "You will live to be 86," she said. "Happy and healthy." However at 58 a series of events, too complex and wide spread for even God's calculator, cut my time short. I have lived out those remaining years here, in my Limbo at Grassy Sound. One by one my friends have gone away: Kirlin, Thelma, George and Jimmy. I have acclimated myself to being alone. Each day before dawn, in the foggy violet of darkness, I hear familiar voices calling me from across the water. I can hear oars rattling their locks as a rowboat comes almost into view. I open my eyes. It's gone. I have nearly finished the work I started with Kirlin. I have dug through every drawer and cupboard, read every book, finished countless paintings that will never be seen. I've written and re-written of the beautiful things I have experienced here, and those words will never be read by mortal eyes. I have not grown old but my mind has grown weary. I can feel my time here coming to a close. The wooden boat will, some day soon, come to carry me away.

1902