this is the story of a man, who, having been exposed to daily beatings (quite early in the development of his childhood), beat the world around him into shape; a man who beat himself into a shape others could not recognize as meaning well, for all his efforts to do well were, unfortunately, dragged doggedly along the battered frameworks of his twisted form.

as in hell we are subjected to our greatest pains until we assume a love for their presence--for it absolves, however momentarily, us of, at the least, our loneliness--and then, when hope, and even the desire for the possibility of hope, is gone, and all that remains is a love for the companionship of pain, then the presence of that pain is denied us, so that we are left broken and alone and with no hope for hope, and at last without even the only torturous love left to us, so are the man's deeds, which, for all the pain experienced in their execution, he comes to love.

he grew. abandoned to the wilderness beyond the frontiers of his inherited nature, without even the memory of a brief glimpse of the trail maps from his father's years spent pioneering the land before parsing it out. in the years of his uninformed movements he frequently found himself entangled, and, having no map by which to select a destination, endlessly lost. he spoke in a language heard only by himself, and, between fits of primal emotion crudely rendered through vocalization, he heard the sound of the wind above and between the trees, and of the rustling leaves and falling seeds, and he saw that his breath was as a drop of rain is to the river's rush, and from that vision came to understand that to be silent and nourished by the wind is sometimes preferable to speaking and being lost within it.

i'm going to bed. goodnight.