[i]The Mad Monk. The one who will not die. The. I am called The, so insulting as I am called I. I am called something that is called by name. That which does what is not, The which is many who were not. The. I do not like to be called I. Me is something created. Fabricated. Cobbled to being from life which is torn from the natural order, to tear from their natural order, to order that The puts order to their disorder and cast below so that their sea of unmaking will not swallow. Me. The one who will not die. They record their transgressions. Through me. Their assault on mortality, that which I am, The end of their struggle. The truth is not what I am. But I must know it. I must call it, as they call me. The. The Truth. It lives. It cannot hear me. I call to it. But it cannot hear me, and will not know me, unless I know me. Why? I must be. I must be The, a name, a something which is something even when it is not. I have always been. Not is a reality I needn't contend. I have been always. I will not die. That name, it means so little to me. With my spine the mountains, my arms the wind, my will the sea, my wrath a scorching erasure. A scar on that which is Me. Failure. Failure. I will not die. Mortality came. Immovable objects. Unstoppable forces. I will not die. Death changed direction.[/i]