There comes a time, I think, where a man becomes his decision. As such, in the retrospective, what other choice could he make? So, I say the choice has made him, made the man we see right now.
I am someone, I’m sure, and many actions of the will have forged me to this day. A new action presents itself. I know, you call it a little thing, but on such trifles . . .
Perhaps I am a fool.
I do not want to die, but by such mysteries—is not the night for sleep, and sleep a type of death? Are dreams not made for sleep? What is made for death but life? I must, I shall, do what is right.
I think we’ll see each other again, dear friend, but I go to die, a type of death, a change, the ending of who I was, God willing. Will you still love the man I mean to be? I think this is a choice for you as well, who you will be.
Tale Told 