And beyond the troubled turnings of the wind, I have returned. Here, my open hand; nothing remains. Death has taken all that death can take; even my name is gone. Yet still, I linger here, a shadow of a shadow, a ghost of a ghost, the whisper you dare not breathe.
You have fled from me across oceans and eons. You have worn out your immortal body running from something that cannot run, cannot change or move. You, who have planted me here in your own mind, anchoring me forever in the dreams you will not dream, what port do you hope to find in which you will not invent me again?
You have fled to all the darkest corners of this world, and I am there. You have sought out the most boisterous and crowded cities of earth, but you have not yet drowned me out. Am I not continually at your side? Have I any existence but for you, and can you separate yourself from yourself?
Now look at you, immobile, trapped, so dried up you’re only bones. What, will some hiker come and trip and cut himself on your teeth? Will he bleed and die for you? When some happenchance frees you from this grave, will it not free me too? Has it not happened all before?
Aren’t you tired yet of this chase, of this struggle? Haven’t you learned, yet, that when you sold your soul, you lost all love and thereby all enjoyment you might have had?
