More like a quadrillion, actually:
the title's a misnomer, to encourage
a sense of legitimacy
since you won't allow it.
More like an infinity, actually really:
the fighter's a dreamtiger, which never lacks courage
or a sense of fidelity
just not to the values you associate with it.
Which might be x, or y, or z, or omega, honestly;
the writer is probably a dossier, by now, an age
or a sense of complicity
that never disappears, no matter how much you wish it
to be a little less challenging and earthshaking, seriously.
On the brighter side of things, admittedly, the wage
he is earning barely sends any kind of sense of emergency
but the sun always reappears, in every generation that needs it.
Maybe the work should be called a hundred fears,
or five hundred and twelve tears,
or, if you were honest about everything, and actually very clear,
maybe the end is —
— when I get rear-ended,
and the cycle stops, unclear
of where it is supposed to go, or whose year
it is going to be:
Merlionsman's or Dreamtiger's,
Makaravedra's or
Maybe even all three.