Prologue
"To die, to sleep—to sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub, for in this sleep of death, what dreams may come." ~ Hamlet
When the end is near, all men are equal. Death does not care what we did, how we lived or who we loved, as long as it can grab our souls in its claws. It does not count if we are deserving and who we leave behind, so it should be each man's duty to have fulfilled his dreams and lived a life worthy of the heavens.
I know all about the heavens. During my life I have worked tirelessly to find the recipe that makes us one with the angels. The right word, the perfect description, that was my passion. I am well known in all of London for my witty words and romantic phrases which have helped hundreds of lovers find each other and live happily with the person that made their stars shine brighter. I, however, did not.
The smell of mold is conquering the lavender my wife tries to hide in the books she thinks I will not have enough days left to open again. She puts flowers everywhere to trick death into losing its way to my soul. Sweet creature, she thinks that I may live longer if she covers me in petals. Such a pity, black was never her colour.
I know I will die soon; I can feel it in my bones. They shatter with every movement and crack under the weight of my decomposing muscles. My body is ready, it has been longing for it, but my mind refuses to quench. It lives those moments, time and time again, trying to turn back the wheels of an era and forge itself a new memory. One that will cloak it from the infernal fires that patiently await.
Whatever time I have left, I shall give it justice and lay on paper the tale as it was, the one story I always wanted to tell but was not allowed to dream.