Where is the fire behind the pen, the blazing sunlight flaring from this nib? Will my writing resurrect in sacred embers, penning these dying words from phoenix feathers? Oh Keats, I understand, what does everyone want from me? I'm inscribing these in flames, leaving fiery lanes of diction known only to me, and soon on and on forever. There's a furnace beneath my feet, and it's hell on my heels. I fear the diving deep, knowing it could be the last thing, my carving letters into the sea soon washed away. Thou was not born for death, immortal Bird! I wish you not half in love with easeful death, nor consign to fate your final breath, for it is not on the end we dwell, no, nor on misery does happiness hold her sway.
It's a gambit; this all was. I notice footsteps in the dust around this head of mine, and they race around in obvious disdain of geometrical similitude, and though they neither exit nor enter, arrive nor leave, I never see whose feet these footsteps belong to. But I love whoever it is, for the delicate rhythm and the stubborn willingness to disturb the dust and dance the dream, I love despite the hurt. If you fall in love with the volcano, you are bound to be burned, and if the sea, why, what ripples can you make in such a thing?
Blind woke up, and he was. Around him, capsules similar to the one in which he lay also swiveled open with a dry, ratcheting noise, and Blind attempted to orient himself in the room based on the sounds, but his head pounded and his mind eked along like an ice floe.
He remembered nothing.
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