A fly rested on the lamp nearby. Frank sat smoking; a deaf tap sent ash from his cigar falling like snow. Nobody was around. When a man has thoughts of tomorrow to contend with, a fly has no place being there. Breathing cigar air, he relaxed his hand, unfurled a fleshy palm. The fly edged across the lamp. Frank noticed the abundance of grey hairs entwined about his wrist watch; smoke fled from his nostrils. Time held, and the fly flew its erratic way nearby, where, closed in tight by soft flesh, death came so slow, it made no sense