Each soul is the last of its kind,

the last of the Mohicans,

the singular Tom Jones of the time,

the everyman of fable, legend,

and history.

Whatever comes into the world,

however changed

by the life lived and dreamed,

when that life is no more,

whatever yet remains

exists for all time

within the illumination

of having ever lived.

To find the individuation

of experience and understanding

diminished by the eternity before,

and the endless days

of each death thereafter,

is untrue to life,

the gift of ever having lived,

the soul of creation

affirmed and reaffirmed

in each separate way of being.

We live, and die,

within our anecdotes and idiosyncrasies.

Each moment is an only one,

as is each identity;

plot its course, if you like,

distinct from any wisdom

of community,

singular, not solitary,

celestial, and star bright.