♫David Bowie - Sense Of Doubt♫

July 10, 1778

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...What does it mean to live, Magdalene?...

...A life of work is dependable of what you gain for it; a life without a work is your dependancy of what you didn't gain, or losed. When frustation comes, alike these thoughts, some would give up of living for what they lived all along, yet no matter how these thoughts sound comfortable for me, I am a man made to die, here now, or in the field, or on a bed, maybe any punk or hoodlum wandering those dark corners, if they are lucky enough. I don't believe in a sort of luck; uncertainty lies at the tip of this sword, as certain will be the blood dyed on its silver blade. That trash... it always seem to share of ties into myself. I am trash, I have become such, if I keep awaiting for this long. I'm drying alike this desert, such pitiful place to be a nest of such pitiful creatures. Like spiders, crawling up inside my body, laying of thousand eggs, I await for these children to grown up, so I can crush then like I would crush a bug...

...Spiders may not be like bugs, as much as these burmecians are nothing alike Alexandrians, as we do. Your sword claims of their blood, as much as an entire generation of Alexandria and its people claims the crystal back. A source of power, once given for free to other nations into little shards, divided alike the bones and breads same blade of your sword cut throught, in your time, same time I am living as well. You may question us, mainly me, and the acts I am planning. Sure, the Cleyrans lying inside that trunk are defenseless without that sandstorm, and killing them would cost my own dignity, my own conduct I am known for. The only lives I've never sparred where those belonging to the men, always armed with swords, knives, or even claws, like these burmecians do. From a distance, they'll soon be there, the brother coming for its sister's aid; also, same brother is the one who tends to kiss his own sister in secret, as it seems...

...Frustations leds to loss, the loss leads to a hurt, and when it hurts, I feel fear. What do I really fear is the uncertainty. To think this is the same sword that had cut of Alexander and its crystal's shards, and same one whom I have used as a device to kill others who tried to kill me and my dignity, even people who once shared of my same country... those are the certainties, but they all belong to this sword. The certainties of mine are none, but the death, of mine, and of some burmecians, any scoundrel who cames into my way as well. What does it means to die, Magdalene? I'll only die when I overcome of such fear, when the certainty arrives at me, more than this sight slowly going blind, unlike this sword, the sword of doubt...

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