Had he flown, the storms mass would have arrived sooner, with less trepidation. To be caught bare in the surge was a blessing to him, kinder than knowing in advance. When his mind was built, he was twelve. He had never possessed trouble in mind. By eighteen, he had walked in silence for six years. Occasionally wading in joy, he awaited the solitude of life's downward slope, those final decades.
Had he flown, he'd have never known. Though each step appeared heavier, he was told it only eased with time. Days, thoughts, that notion of time was common only in winter, when it actually stopped.
Had he followed the common man's central flyway, floating in assumed complacency, he'd have never loved; his hate would seem meager. Had he never loved, his hate would be meager.
Each time he conquered another, it was a different vein of the same rhythmic pulse. The hunt always elating, the kill never satiating. A jingoist, a sybarite, he would soar those first days following a kill. He would carry that affectation till they met it head-on, till he realized his own ineptitude.
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