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Summary
In the end, it didn’t matter.
In the end the mark that poetry would call love glowed in the shape of crumpled petals of red upon the curve of Tenzou’s neck is worthless. In the end, if one truly believed in things like meant-to-be, match-made-in-heaven and all those things poets would write about while high on opioids – delusional things, impractical for a weapon forged in the bellies of the shadows, every ounce of a self that could possibly exist erased from existence – didn’t matter.
A thing like him, after all, is a vessel for nothing more than the will of the village.
No past, no present, no future.