I wrote my joy of when the brothers would be dead and everyone would dance and no celebrate, screaming for a congratulations from some benevolent being, or maybe just myself.
I wrote my sadness of when he took my foot and jabbed a rusty hook into the sole and the spear broke through it into the open world! What joy.
I wrote until my hand shriveled and I shriveled. I sit and wait for the world to finish shriviling. I can finish writting.