The wind caresses the folds of his coat - fluttering them like the wings of a dying butterfly - as his wooden cane taps on the dilapidated concrete pavement. The breezes of late autumn wind are gentle but remain unwavering, and slowly, surely, they wear down even the strongest monsters. His silvery grey hair ruffles gently:

"Return."

"Why?"

The cloud coalesce over and a sickly white fog descends down into the ruined campfire.

"I shan't taint art with my foul blood no more."

A gust of wind blows past the ashes as they fly off; the last shreds of history float gracefully into the corners of memory.

"Draw it yourself then, shall you not? Tear the paper to pieces, burn them. From the rubble you shall build your castle. Take it. Take more. Take everything"

A hawk swoops down to a rat. It digs it's claws in, and the foul animal lets out a painful yelp. Blood from the wound drips out, and it paints an elegant streak of mahogany:

"No."

But oh! How foolish the man must be to think the skies will listen to him! His hair fuses in color with the sky-cotton; and through him sent a light of boundless cruelty, condemning him to live through a failed, broken life. For the gods have no reason to give a dirty soul rest.