But I haven't been clear;

I am the angry mob,
the soul of fear, the whites of their eyes, the

You see me on the theatre screen, television screen,
(some of you see me weaving among the players)
I was on the walls at Pompeii, they
kept records of me as I travelled through Egypt, I
met your prophets and saviors and spiritual guides--

But I did not begin in the cradle of civilization,
nor will I end amidst your pollution and sky scrapers.

I came from the North, the interminable wilderness, the
land of ice-through-to-the-core, where solid land is a mile down and a mile in every direction and a mile above your head is the sun which Can Not Help You In This Place. Your ancestors made blood-sacrifices to stave off the harshest winters, and so you are alone with the endless white. You are lost in the beginning. In the beginning, you do not know where you are, or understand what you have to do. You are nothing, and all you have is an impossible journey through an innavigable Nothing. You become the journey.

Bourne upon the shore, waves against your back, you cannot see the sky but you feel the sun, and the ice coming off your fingers and nose--

I misled you earlier. I am not everywhere.
But I am probably with you now. Mine is the sting
at the back of your eyes, fatigued
(from work or trials or years)
and noise at the back of your mind;
I am your ambitions, your attachments,

When you reach land you have forgotten the bite of winter. Rejoicing in the warmth, you do not notice the temperature rising in your veins. Everyone you talk to, and everything you see in this world gets into you. You do not realize, but slowly the static will fall across your eyes. I am that static.

Peace would have been great but now too many sacrifices have been made.

I grow tired of all this writing.
Goodnight, my friend, and wish me luck.
For tomorrow, I have gods to kill.

It will be fire, Frost.

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