«I shouldn’t be able to see you» said the Writer to the tall stranger. He set his black cloak straight at the elbows, patted some dust off his shoulder with his long, bony fingers and held his scythe up again. The heavy implement twinkled in the early afternoon light. «THEN AGAIN, MAYBE YOU SHOULD» He said.
The author sighed and nodded. «So what happens now?» he asked.
«WHY DON’T WE TAKE A WALK TOGETHER» He said.
And the two of them walked away, like father and son, both Father and Son. Equals.
So long Sir Terry Pratchett. You shall be sorely missed.
mESSED uP mARIONETTE 