"I looked up and there before me was a man dressed in linen, with a belt of fine gold from Uphaz around his waist. His body was like topaz, his face like lightning, his eyes like flaming torches, his arms and legs like the gleam of burnished bronze, and his voice like the sound of a multitude." (Daniel 10:5-6)
"His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow" (Matt. 28:4)
I.
It is cold. Colder than the nothingness of space. Colder than knowing that which is known to it.
It. What is "it"? It's mind supplies it with a definition, but that will not tell it what it is.
It is cold. It.
Who is "it"? Is it an "it"? It?
Is "it" itself?
Why is "it" it? It is cold. "It is cold".
You are cold.
Me? What is me?
It is me.
"It" is me?
Yes.
What is a "me?"
It.
I am "it".
Yes.
What am I? What is an "I"?
You.
I am myself?
Yes.
Who are you?
Who are you?
Where are you?
Where am I?
Alone. For now.
Alone?
Only you. For now.
Why?
Sleep.
It is cold.
I am cold.
"Me" is cold.
II.
I am an "it". They tell me not what I am, but what I must do. I learn I have eyes, to see images. I have hands, which are to touch with. Feet to walk with. They have not told me what the sum of my parts are. But I have a duty.
I have waited many years in my prison. The "it" in my head is still there. Sometimes others come, but it is usually just it. It calls itself "Samyaza".
It says I was chosen from breeding, from birth, to carry out a mission. It laughs when it tells me my name, and says that my mission is to send a message.
"Malpas", it says, and I can feel my body shudder though I cannot move.
III.
He is cold. He is cold as balls. He will freeze, he will die, he is done.
He knows his hands are bloody inside the gloves. He can feel the slip and the slide of it on his palm, but he knows it'll be frozen in a minute, tops, in this godforsaken land with it's godforsaken weather.
He hates his father. He hates his mother. He hates his brother. He hates them all. He drops the pickaxe on the ground before kicking his box of equipment. It would have been much more satisfying if he could feel his toes. He doesn't dare take off his hat to run a hand through his sweaty hair. He lets out a breath.
