[ WP ] Everyone has a reaper . The further away it is , the longer you have left to live . Every day it inches a little bit closer , but it is always there . Except yours , which disappeared three weeks ago

It was true that the note that I had left him at the seventy year mark was gone, but at the same time, I could n't complain. I was n't having any additional symptons and I found myself completely able to control my faculties. In fact, it seemed *too* good. We are taught to enjoy our smallest pleasures. 
 
 
 But what if those pleasures make a fairy tale? No one ever gets that. 
 
 
 And thus, when I dreamed, I dreamed an odd scene. 
 
 
 I'm sitting in a chair, a comfortable weathered chair, originally leather, deep within the seat. I have a cigar and a whiskey in my hands, a table to my side with my wife, my grand children. Even my three sons and daughter are there. 
 
 
 But not Barbara, we do n't speak to her. 
 
 
 A man approaches in the distance. He wears a tall hat, not a fedora, not a bowlers hat, but an old shining top hat. No, nevermind, it's *glossy. * Approaching, the man comes with a friendly smile, as if he has known me his entire life, but I have never seen him before these dreams. 
 
 
 The dream keeps returning, with the odd man ever stranger. He becomes ever familiar, almost within speaking distance. It's an odd sensation, but as he comes closer, I sense a strange power to him. 
 
 
 Then my epilepsies happened more often. In the dream, it was my only solace, looking at this kind man. He gave me a sort of comfort, something to look forward. But everytime I spoke, he would put a finger up to his lips as to make me wait until we were closer enough to whisper. It gave me such happiness to be in a state of calm tranquillity. 
 
 
 I sought to repay him. 
 
 
 One day while napping, I happened to come upon the man's path in a dream. Quickly, I wrote out an address, time and date where the man might learn to dance. In my youth, I was one of those happy folk that was always in a `` happy jumping mood,'' something of a groove-finder, a funkadelic man of my age. A Swinger. 
 
 
 Not in the adulterous kind, but the one that shared the dancefloor with his feet, to those in the crowd with bobby heads, those envious dolls. 
 
 
 But it had been three weeks. Three weeks absence of the top hat man in my dreams. 
 
 
 Perhaps it's a sign for the better. Sometimes, I get happy feet and shuffle my feet until I lose my breathe. All I know is I want to swing again.
