in the summer, the air hangs hot; the river is cold, however, the same way that it is the whole year round. ana steps into the water, her reflection rippling on the surface of the waves, broken by the gentle breeze that passes over her. the wind carries the distinct scent of smoke, ashes -- she can taste it in the back of her mouth. it reminds her of a distant, distant memory... a story that was already written, a death that could never have been averted... ah, the cyclical nature of all tragedy, especially when the characters have their fates set in stone. the narrative kills him, resurrects him, over and over and over again. the academic intervenes; an audience member stands up, fighting for his life; except no, not really. he first has to play his role, understand how meaningless it all is, in the end. the martyr's blood stains his hands and no matter how hard he scrubs underneath his nails he will never be able to stop smelling the sharpness of iron. he intends it, in some ways. he doesn't intend it, in others. but the fact remains that what's done is done. you are the maker of your own will. by stepping in, you have chosen to write your own lines. justice be done on this fair earth. amen.
