Death Is Everything's Final Limit

It is the best hour of the day: Everyone has gone to bed; and I am left alone with all my words And the lamp is shining, in my solitary spot And the stars are shining, outside the window And the whole world seems at ease and peaceful. The feeling of freedom seems boundless and beyond time. It's all so delicious, that I fear sometimes I might just freeze in place here, Arms on the table, with my head full of whimsy and half written ideas; Enjoying the process far too much, to ever complete anything. But then another idea always comes along, and pushes the one before it out, So that I have to begin writing again; Task that I hope will never end, until I am quite dead. Then do with me what you will; I will be all emptied out by then, I hope With only the star light to rush back in, Into the vacuum that's left by my leaving: Mors ultima linea rerum est.