A strong wind comes over me. I know this wind from Alaska where it was called the hawk. It bites into my flesh taking bits from my soul and courses through me. There is no color around me. I look back at my trail, a being crawling over a checkerboard. I was saving the game of chess for when I got older. Then I would have time and money to drink fine red wine and learn the game. When death came for me I could play him and forestall the inevitable. I waited too long. My body is just a hollow shell, coupled with diminishing strength and the death of a thousand cuts. But the wind now changes from an arctic chill to invigorating energy and I enjoy the feeling of still being alive. I look ahead and take one more step.
We possess nothing certainly except the past- yet to live we must exist only in the present. Satoru