Heroes are fucking brilliant; they are shiny, aren't they? What of the friend who goes out of his way to convince you to be somebody else, to bleed, to cry? They can have their heroes and we our enemies: lovers who, in gentle caress, gnaw at our hearts and plead to feed again with soft, translucent apologies. But that is not all. We may love to be loved and incur no returns. Silence be shamed, be damned, be all of our friends over again. Rely on yourself. Fuck it, run the risk of dying with dignity. No religion but the dogmatic march of the mind, in accordance with the heart, will press on so well--will ignore the godliness of Things or Others. Slave at life to no end if only the pain is worth bearing. Otherwise, be no slave and watch the grains tumble down the spinning glass until you lose top from bottom. This hedonism will fulfill you? Surely yes, but not to the extent of pulling yourself limb from limb and surviving. Would you, at the loss of everything you hold dear, hang your hat up? Would you admit defeat and welcome infinity with a heavy head? Some look forward to dying, not as an escape, but as the fruition of future's end. We are deities for sure in a book that ends to challenge eternity, fate, and each reason for seeking an Answer. Little gods are we: masters of ourselves only and of the supreme loneliness we each ascribe the world. Would you trust the world to be you or you the world? No, you are an entity apart from the animals and from God and from each other. The mortal consciousness we abide by is isolation, really. Unconditional love may very well exist, and it should. But can you love yourself? Can you live beneath the burden and surface with a voice? Or will the boisterous declarations of heroes drown you out? We are all many people to many people, even ourselves. Who you choose to be may confound you: you are nothing, you are everything, today you are evil, tomorrow you are untouchable. In the end, as in the beginning, the mere reflection upon a face, still or alive, will create you in every moment. Lives become less than chapters in a confused almanac and more like the pages that rub together crisply as they are turned. Heroes are chapters upon pages of Yous and I's. They succumb to the fire as easily as anyone else, and all that's left behind is ash. And the world still turns.