Sunday, November 27, 2005

The Plot Thickens

Our hero is consumed by the great battle, having underestimated its strength and relentlessness. He is caught off guard, and as a result, the swing of his axe is unruly and unartistic, each hack is not a precise swing of brutal force but a despirate flail for survival. The beauty of his style is lost, and with it, his strength.

His arms grow weary and his head pounds for water and air, everything's a blurry adrenaline-laiden fest of cruelty. As expected, fate rises from the chaos of battle, but the chaos he rises from makes his beckoning, oh, so worse. It is now that blows must be made... but which blows? And, even if where to strike was obvious, it wouldn't be possible to know if they were perfect hits, to know that the strikes were hard enough, until it was too late to strike again.

Will the arms of our hero collapse before he even gets a chance to strike? And when fate comes, what will the hit on it become?

A swing, a kill, a miss. Amiss. Victory has one anthem: global. The battle could be a complete triumph, but only in the future will this really be known. Even if the battle is lost, this, in itself, may lead to victory.

Fuck, I need more coffee.


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