e.  THE HOURS OF FOLLY ARE MEASURED BY THE CLOCK BUT OF WISDOM NO CLOCK CAN MEASURE  Death tells all which is nothing.  Close to the dangerous borders  you look around.  It is still there,  the clamoring of what you missed,  the skin of time  crumpled like roadkill,  your lists of omissions.  The granddaughter of reason  has deceived you  among the upper and lower skies,  the old house across the marshes,  the instruments and papers  scattered about the maw of the earth.  Even when facts are worse than suspicions  the suspicions are worse.  You thought you were great  because your remoteness was great  but now you open even as you die,  peddling last words for each moment.  You eat not because you're hungry  but because you're alive.  Go fight with your worms.  