A white bandana don’s his head. Drowning in footnotes, an endless thread. That supposedly fun thing he never got to do. His sadness wouldn't allow it, didn't want him too.
He considered a crustacean painted ruby red. But, those days are over phrases left unsaid. The pale king has left, gone far away. The stories are over, nothing left to say.
The jester became infinite, sealed in our ethos. Trapped in a novel, words of a ghost.