He saw his own eyes. Once the ornate rhetoric was scraped away, they were neither like stars nor like an abyss. They were simply stones, from the same place as all other stones, with patterns that had naturally formed over the years and happened to be beautiful.
This was not something he had arrived at through thought. It was simply how he had been born. Yes, from the moment he came into being, his unwritten story had been set in stone.
The swordsman lowered his sword, dazed and shattered, then covered his face and began to sob uncontrollably.
At last, he understood just how vast the wind was that swept him, a tiny speck of dust, through this universe.
