It was evening and would be when I woke. No matter. From the maple tree the Red-tail spoke.

Like forearm veins, my interests spread in different directions and eventually led to the hands, to writing.

Stories do not change, only the lives they live in do.

To live meant feeding my former self to my current self.

Fights begin and end with handshakes.

In The Land of Poetry and Fighting, Efficiency rules the throne. I try to live here, so I shave my head because hair is dead and dead is inefficient.