Dolimer Gusset had lived a life that was a compendium of mini lives.
Truck driver, stock clerk, loader on the loading docks, bell hop and purloined pen-man (for he stole every drop of ink); yet the life he was leading today was unlike any preceding.
Dolimer had found his curtain call in the arms of a married lady.
Jealous husband, rants and raves, and there lay Dolimer in a bloody pool perhaps to live another day - his sins forgiven perchance in belief, a belief over-all?
For it was now only known to the stars in heaven, as his many lives (and many wives) had now become only one.
And the many lives that had been part and parcel of Dolimer Gusset rise and fall, and rise again with the sequential nature of that hot and boiling - rising, falling sun...and all those lives that come, and go, forever reaching under its seemingly ever-present domain.
One life it is, in strife; yet at its end two roads that follow very different, but equally infinite lines.
And these lines that unlike the many lives that become singular in the One, these two shall never merge as one again. Alas, the one becomes the infinite Nil where and when time itself, and that seemingly ever-present sun that measures become forever irrelevant and evaporate in self-consumption in a vacuous chasm within a dark chamber that to no one life will become even a singular matter ever again.
And a Sheriff's report lies on an empty desk with scant little detail of a man who'd lived so many lives and was now in this life eternal, dead.
And thus is written of the many lives lived and now died in and of a name on a page of a one, Dolimer Gusset.
May he rest in peace.