When she falls amongst the dirt, amongst the hollow songs, amongst the idiot travelers reveling along, she will wait no more for any other hero to come. Above them she will rise, Hero. Rise again through the agony of the fallen- those who failed in picking their souls up from fallen dust and eggshells. She rises again to redefine herself. Phoenix is a whisper. She- she is without bounds and her voice is limitless. She creates her own breath of life. She creates her own song.

And she travels, steadily along, but they will not gaze upon her face. The eyes- windows into the soul. The pupils, if seen- they shoot holes into their flighty life themes.

The Fortunate. They find themselves humming a tune shortly thereafter. Not her tune. But their own.

They get it.

But they don’t.

Smile. It is the first thing of which you have control.