Admiral Andrews addresses all answers and allows all appropriate allegories. Accidentally, alas, an anti-army advocate (antagonizing an all-aware audience again) asks after Admiral Andrew’s aunt.

And afterwards, all attendents’ attentions are aimed at Admiral Andrews’ angst, as Aunt Amy’s ashes are ably anchored, and adrift, and after... all, all away.

Keeping time, time, time,

          In a sort of Runic rhyme,

            To the throbbing of the bells—

          Of the bells, bells, bells—

            To the sobbing of the bells;

          Keeping time, time, time,

            As he knells, knells, knells,

          In a happy Runic rhyme,

            To the rolling of the bells—

          Of the bells, bells, bells—

            To the tolling of the bells,

      Of the bells, bells, bells, bells—

              Bells, bells, bells—

  To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

Hear the ticking and the tocking

Of the clocks, so rudely mocking,

All our lives, lives, lives;

They produce their steely knives,

Then they stab the one who thrives,

All the knocking and the squawking,

And the victims’ bodies locking,

To the times of their lives—

Of their lives, lives, lives—

Of their lives, lives, lives, lives, lives—

Lives, lives—

Of their silly-billy, frilly times and lives!

She with condescension seems,

To have muddled up her dreams,

With the putrid stress and knowledge of her bills!

For the bills pile up,

They o’erflow her spilling cup,

And with statutory memes,

She unveils her payment schemes,

To pay her bills! Pay her bills—

Pay her bills, bills, bills—

Pay her bills, bills, bills, bills, bills—

Bills, bills—

All her time and life was spent with

Paying bills!

I want to obtain a brake for my heart because truly, it needs to be stopped. An emergency brake will do, but make sure the brake pads are new and robust because I am going too fast. My heart is like a downhill skier, pointed straight at the finish line, before even beginning the race. It is a speeding race car on an oily track, going too fast for the upcoming hairpin turn.

“Rein it in!” I always say. “I have no problem with that! Nor have I ever!”

But the heart goes its way. Often, the heart is stupid. To wit, it fell for lovely, pretty things when I was much younger. Then when it was hurt too often, well, that’s when I built the bubble. It’s a solid, plexiglass, superhero-worthy encasement, so that my heart would never be hurt and always be safe. Then my young child died while I held her hand. She was hit by a car that didn’t brake, driving in reverse, out of control, on the sidewalk. This really happened. And I’ve been trying to write a book about it, but it’s too painful. Funny though, I always make the time for funner projects. But I am going to get it done. So I’m trying it out now. To write about it. Here.

This impenetrable bubble around my heart was a good, good thing for me to have created. No doubt. But a heart brake would be better now. It needs friction and squeezing, and not to be isolated and untouched as it is. Because it’s pissed off. At everything.

So just stop it. Stop all. Brake it. Break all. Cease all caring, because, well, why, really, in the long run? Not to sound unfeeling, but why the hell would anyone open-up themself again? After that? Why? What if something else like that happened? How idiotic would I be then?

I‘d gladly accept a brake for my heart because it doesn't need to go anywhere anymore.

I’ve fared well since then. I’m angry. But I love. I have more children now.

I try not to show what I know. That heartbreak could be around any corner.

”Don’t live in fear, my precious children!” I say. “That’s the worst thing you could do!” So I live fear-free and fearless. Because it should have been me that was taken, not her.

Obviously.

So brake your heart if you must.

There‘s no shame in it.

No shame in being cautious.

The last words that will ever be spoken are the words, “I’m sorry.”

That very last person, who utters these ultimate, final words, will be responsible for the death of our world. It’s sort of like when a lone soldier emerges alone from a bloody battle. He or she will not be lauded. They will be met with suspicion. “Why didn’t you die with the rest of them? What’s wrong with this picture?”

The last words ever spoken will be, “I’m sorry.” Because that person will either be the worst villain ever, or the greatest hero. That person will either be the most cowardly person left alive, or the least deserving of all for our untimely finish.

It will either be an innocent or someone to blame.

Either way, all anyone can do at that point is to apologize.

For letting it happen:

The end.