Burning on both ends...

It breaks his heart. Better than his words, his eyes tell us all his peril. He is not yet free, far from it, and he still searches for freedom. His discovery has fatigued him and made him too wakeful. He longs for the open heights, his soul thirsts for the stars. But his bad instincts too thirst for freedom. His rabid dogs long for freedom; they bark for joy in their cellar when his spirit aspires to break open all prisons. To the world he is still a prisoner who imagines freedom: ah, such prisoners of the soul become clever, but also deceitful and base.

He will open his hands and feel the sweat on his palms and perhaps he will remember that he was born without lifelines on his hands, without fortune, agenda, or love: he was born, and he will start this journey with a smooth palm, because all he has to do is simply come into existence; after a few hours, that blank surface will be filled with signs, lines, portents. He will die with his dense lines worn out, but all he has to do is die for all trace of his destiny to disappear from his hands after a few hours. Chaos has no plural.