I am the writer of epitaphs. I reduce a lifetime to a stanza, line, or, perhaps, a single word. These are the hardest; my favorite is STAR-SPLITTER. I am known to few but feared by most. Many are my masks. Some of my works endure a short while, a few a century or an aeon. The process by which these are spared is, to my knowledge, a random one; most are forgotten even before I chisel them into stone. My memory seems made of wax. I have been called God, History, and Memory, but I consider myself, at best, an inspired idiot. Yet my work is consistent. Some, in my position, might speak of power, but I know not the word. I tend to think of my work in differing terms: a job that needs to be done, so I do it — and besides, I know of no other line.