I am not scared. I am courageous. I, for brief moments, hide in respite from the fear of the end. Only when the flames fill my eyes and my heart and my body can I flounder in the lull. The glorious lull. And at once my face in black and red, and my skin is deep and shallow and my eyes are burning and dark. To know the real damage and beauty of honest passion is to mirror the face of the reaper and challenge him. He shall blink before I do and he shall falter in my quake and my knees will not buckle but his shall break and fall and he shall wince while I smile and craft the darkness into light beams that reach farther than wars and men. And I let it go, I breathe the air of a thousand lungs and I peer into life, into you, into earth, into ashes. And they are beautiful and I am scared again. But I have the divine capacity to remember and evoke the courage and the finite interval. I have plucked at valour and accepted it as token for what I know will be. To cease is sure, but to feel while one breathes is an endless wonderment for which gratitude supersedes and I see the top and bottom and all that is magnificent in between. To be sure of something is to know. I am sure. The faultless path is carved in fate and in breath. The finale is written and lived and I am scared and you are scared but we defy by way of glory and passion and love.