It taxes my patience to essentially live my life in the third person, a condition to be discussed, a matter for seers to ponder. And now a toll is exacted in the only currency of this country: time. Through a thick window pass the stars of another world’s night and this glimpse is meant to suffice? Tell the beggars to feed their fucking bellies with postcards of fine meals. Even as walls are soluble under the unceasing drip of water, so too do Tower walls fail when met by the constant edge of my will. And where others do fail to act, I would trod emboldened, laying waste to chaff, piercing hearts with silver.

-R