Nimble and cunning, there are no "kings" patrolling the prairie among my flies, just something spotted and wild that likes to balance on the timber at the lumberyard, the sibilating frogs and tadpoles in the cove, I speak the language between lunacy and death, between the phantasma and sawdust.
A fox-cat can pull the tail of a dead lion.
There is no "crown". There is only me and I go and do as I please, immortality unveils nothing to you, I await an infinite freezing dawn while you stand above what will be your tomb.