My suit hangs in the wardrobe. It glares at me through the partially open door. The spectre at the feast, waiting patiently for the next one to fall. The finest tailor, the sweatshop in Asia, first Lieutenant to King Death either way. “A splendid send off” “Didn’t he look smart” “The old boy would have been proud” If we burn all the suits will we live forever? The tailors of darkness keep sewing away. One day that suit will cover me and the label won’t itch. One day I won’t care if I’m not wearing a stich. One day the creases will line up perfectly. One day we will burn that suit …and me.