Gemmycobson

Getting this coal at 50

"Death bein' wot it is down 'ere... all fractured and broken. It ain't right." The little urchin is grave, too distracted to shoo away the birds pecking at her shoulder. "When my time's up, I wants to go properly, you know? Not spat back out by 'is Complexity, or rowed back from the Far Shore, or filled so full of light that the end can't take me. Things 'ave got to 'ave endings. You understand, I'm sure." She is silent for a long while, sat upon the rock, kicking her legs into empty air. "Otherwise no new fings can start."