Lonely Gregory

He is not dead to us.  To us, he lives on in the company of two other old chaps: our spirituality and realised Oneness; in the company of both the boundless divinity of existence, and our enjoyment of the immersive wisdom that waits for us just past the quintuplets of sensory experience.  The three codgers get along, carrying on, relishing the cool touch of their tired, callused soles on the grey, smooth-worn, bare cement floor; of their stiff and crooked thoracic hunches on the damp, granular, vertical legacy of a passionless stonemason.  Around an absent campfire, the brotherly trio grin and chuckle with introspective, warm gazes that sometimes wander – through the tall, narrow spaces afforded by a militant row of unyielding ferrous solidity – with a patient yet unexpecting hope to see their key-bearer; or, rather, for their key-bearer to see them.  It has been so long.

Pardon?  His name was “Lonesome George”, not “Lonely Gregory”?

Whatever.