He had not the ability to think, only to wish upon his desire in the memory that was carved upon him, his body, the pain he endured for power.
For this man once had ambitions, many, a plethora.
In a world of monsters and gates and hunters and money and power, he wished to be a someone, to be plastered upon billboards, upon buildings would lie his name.
A name erased from history, for he had forsaken it? For he had nothing that would prompt his name to be written.
No book of names that read the story of life would tell his name, his story, for he had not one.
There was no held recording of his existence, yet he was acknowledged, at one point yes.. he was acknowledge vibrantly among his pears, among those that beat him tirelessly, among those that plucked his nails from his fingers and those that used his body like a tree trunk to carve their signatures upon him.