<- Go back to Fiction WorksA man was sitting down, laughing manically, his face an explosion of emotions. He wished only to become a human being, and he longed for it so much. Yet, he was here sitting in a mass of mangled corpses, his armor, gambison, tunic, and hands dirty, soaked, and damaged. His hands were somewhat red with blood. A sword lay on the ground. The sun shone, as it had only become sunrise, with the dimness and blue, orange, and white colors.
"I am a man," he said hoarsely, "not because I can, but because I cannot. I am the epitome of limitations, and I shall thus walk forward, knowing well my limitations and by what ways I am undone. I am all that I am, in all that which it bestows upon me—the Epitome!"