Four Thousand of a Degree

You see there has been a question burning in me and in the depths of the world. The one about the artful warriors. The one that keeps me up most nights.

There are multitude destinies within one millionth of your realities and only one fifth of them are relative and the rest are filled with hundred of your memories and perhaps ninety nine point one one four are just dreams.

And within these numbers, you’ll see the possibility of oblivion and that alone is the only thousand of the actual infinites.

So if you were to die in battle tonight, will I feel it? If you perished on the root of that frozen mountain, will I mourn you?

To be honest all these question were quite useless, almost less than a zero, perhaps below minus four thousand of a degree.

The truth is we were born to be raised like fighters and one day some dawn will bring you back. To recruit the rest of us. Or perhaps the dawn will bring you back permanently to stay.

So the lovely glass wall house by the forest edge, the pristine living room beside the kitchen counter, and the snow globes and book shelves and the lonely corners in the library would not look so desolate.

And that perhaps is just another one of a million ideas between the trillion spaces created by the absence.

The absence.

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