Monday

I fell down from the burning sky, through the broiling cloud made of fire. A storm of doom in my head and an enervation in my limbs. I thought myself made better by rage, but it fractured me. I thought myself made better by despair, but it gave me no guidance. The curse of the sight given me was the inability to see the world and to see beyond this unwholesome vessel. And when I turned my eye inward, I fell further than ever before. Mortal of ash and earth and animal with tongue and reason—the damned son of the mocking sun. Seared by the flame of my sword, unguided and yearning.