A slight beginning.

Well.

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To die is a privilege, granted to those who deserve respite.

It was I who said that. I remember it. I remember it clearly, because I remember everything clearly. Too clearly, some (including me) might say. Memory is often known to be a well-worn patchwork quilt, made of generational hands quietly sewing in tiny bits of history with love. With care. With anything, really. The incidental and the coincidental, all in that collection of individual memes, forming something that can be looked back upon with a sense of personal wonder. Not all of it can be seen. Not all of it can be regarded. But it’s all there. All of it. And when people remember, they often remember things of pure wonder. Not so, with those like me. Those who remember everything. Everything. Those who tend to wonder: Would the world, my life -- would it be better if I could forget?

I remember where I was, the moment that I spoke those words. But more importantly: I remember why. Because before I was sitting there, aside the best friend that I can manage in a place that I continually waste away my days, I was somewhere else. Somewhere cold.
Standing on a muddy hillock outside of Glasgow, staring at the corpse of a simple, stupid man. Watching his semi-long brown hair stand up, frozen in my eyes, although in the space of time it was probably whip-cracking him about the face, as if attempting to punish him for the foolishness that he had just partaken in. His face locked in a quiet mask that mingled an overall look of contentment with the slightest beginning of a grimace. His name was -- had been -- Daniel. And quite honestly, as stupid as I knew he was: he looked as if he had been a nice enough man.

Decent.

At least…he had been. Before only a few moments ago, before he found himself laying in a pile of half-frozen mud, his body formed into a position that made it seem as if he had been made of soft elastic. The blood on his head still moving, in all probability. Still fighting for its warmth against the conflicting desires of the gale. It flowed from a wound that would have been surprisingly small, had I not remembered an infinite multitude of wounds that had come before. As always, the man was dead. But he was not alone.

It was for her that I had come.

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There's more to it. More written down than these simple paragraphs, more spun than these initial ideas. There are places where this can -- where it is going to -- go. Places utilizing myths and fantasies, the roots of stories that we as a people have held close to us over the period of generations, ones that we used to explain and enlighten; ones that we used simply as an excuse to feel good. About something.

And like those stories, the ones manipulated by the vestiges of time -- I hope it may come primarily from a place of memory. If bits and pieces of the myth drop off and change, if only ever so slightly, well then...isn't that how they're supposed to go?

But even so, this moment isn't quite the time. Not yet.
Not yet.

Not yet.