Hic requiescet corpus tuum

Legend has it that St. Marcus had a vision of an Angel greeting him that peace shall be upon him, and that his body shall lie where he was to be killed seconds before he was killed.

The irony of it all is that no one will know. No one shall ever know anything. Whether the vision was true; whether Angels do really manifest themselves to people; whether they exist at all nor, alas, whether St. Marcus is even anything more than a figment of some fanatically religious story teller's imagination. Our witness, after all, is a dead man, of questionable existence.

Pretty much like this being, falling apart, yet standing nonetheless. In love, to the point of no return and madness, yet unbeknown to the world, and very content being so. And there his body shall lie, in a graveyard made purposefully for him, and him alone, and a grave dug exclusively for him, by both of them.

Though he is no saint, and she's as real as the air he breaths, and blood that keeps his veins alive, which is no more, and the wind, and the rain, and the sun and the moon and the stars.

Pax tibi Marce, evangelista meus.

QED.