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It's not Milliways.

It is most emphatically not Milliways.

But it is a bar. Somewhere in the smoke and wet-shining asphalt of New York.

The piano has been drinking, and so has she.

Drinking, and thinking. About how utterly, utterly stupid she's been.

Mortals. There's a reason. There's several hundred reasons. Very good reasons, all of them.

No one bothers the girl in the corner. She's thankful.

Eventually, the night progresses, and she refocuses on doing what it is she does.

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Death of the Endless

January 2007

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