Imagine if Falcon Boy spent his day writing poetry questioning the position that an individual occupies in relation to the Void.

I am a hero

But am I?


I am

No one.

What is a hero


Or what if Falcon Boy chose other forms of expression to express his angst? Dark gloomy-looking paintings, for example, all angry and thick with layers of black paint? Or, long rambling novels written in the first person and called things like Struggle, Me and the Void, or The Fall (Again)? Perhaps he might specialise in black and white photographs of alleyways and waste ground that were actually comments upon the marginality of Man? And this is just Falcon Boy.

I shudder to think how differently the world of this adventure would be spinning if it had spent most of its time allowing Bewilder Bird to wander and wonder and worry, filling school exercise books with barely legible recording of his wanderings and wonderings and worryings. With alternatives like these as possibilities, perhaps it is best that Falcon Boy is a little hasty sometimes.

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