A dying man has a shifting form. He tries to commute his wails through a form people could understand. He grips at the clothes of the healthy, begging for some change even though his wealth is immense. A way to escape but though he stands in the center of the square he means no more then any other poor man. Past recollection hoping to flash and get attention only add to the white noise of a man passing. He must be remembered. He must be because the only way to defeat death is to have a bigger name.  The black star is what they will take away not the fact that death appeared on that day. He is only shifting planes. He will stretch out into the future through the echos of his name.