By Baker Street
The fields of wheat were stretched out before him and he held the scathe of life and death in his hands. It was twilight and the dusk was growing darker yet he stood there in an eternal moment and cut the wheat of mankind. His scathe cut this way and that and he cut through the crowds on the city street, he cut through the battalions at war, and he cut through mankind for all eternity. They were but merely grass that grew in the morning and that was cut in the evening. And still he stood there as it was growing ever darker and his scythe rose and fell in time. The harvest was plentiful as it was the multitudes of man and their rest was ever to be found.