I.
I think my body is getting sick. I know my mind is
already infested with something, at least lately. Love is looking fairly bleak
and my tendencies towards the dramatic heavily contribute to this conclusion. I
envy the Phoenix’s rise—where did it find the courage? To burn in your own fire
and in those ashes sounds comforting. Self-pity has comfortably and marvelously
settled upon, instead of the ashes of my rebirth. It triggers no reaction. I
fail to rise.
II.
That was the coward’s half. This half I will give to
the heroes. Their rise. Surviving and strengthening from their own wounds. They
grow from the ability to stretch it out, cleanse it off and discuss this warrior’s
rise in all its stages. This is the introduction to their story, and I now
depart to set fire to this first half, so as to rise at the end with the other
warriors.