Giving yourself to the world is the final respect you can pay to your own life, and the most powerful song you have ever sung—a song of courage, a hymn, or perhaps just the sound of my own lament.

      Only when a writer drives their own mind to the brink of collapse can they produce their most stunning work. Such works often bloom with splendor, yet from that splendor seeps a quiet desolation. Whether it is fate or love, hatred or longing, they wage war against a hundred flowers. Crimson and violet-black phantoms clash, indistinguishable from one another, by day and by night, eternal—until that writer falls, that warrior falls, and only then does one side claim victory. Or perhaps there is another possibility: the happiness of a hundred blooming flowers triumphs over the lingering sorrow, and the writer attains eternal joy.

      This very chaos is playing out within me right now. No matter who wins or loses, this is my first dance at the bottom—and my last. So let me split the chaos open one more time and fight this accursed demon in my heart. Whether what I offer to the world is my grave or my happiness will finally be settled in the dust.

      A bleak wind swept across the wilderness, whipping up a storm of sand. He walked the vast earth with a laurel wreath upon his head, and every breath carried dust—dust that filled his lungs, each inhale grating against his nerves, physical signals shifting through his body until they reached his brain. Every breath dragged him back into the visions of what once was. Amid the phantoms of light and lightning, he gazed from afar at that royal city, clearly observing every moment he had ever spent within its walls. That was his phantom of the past—his dream, his happiness, nearly everything he had. It was his second home, his lover, his all.

      He caught a glimpse of his story with that city. In older books, the city's surface was recorded in full: a gentle, resilient, colossal city, where the melodies he loved played ceaselessly. He had left his homeland as a child, and that city was merely the most unremarkable stop along his journey. Yet every time he departed, its melody would echo in his mind, calling him back to its harbor. He stood atop an ancient tower, looking down at that resilient city; stepping out, he was surrounded by the brilliance of a hundred flowers. A tender breeze caressed his face, rustling through the branches, sunlight darting between clouds, dew slipping from one leaf only to be caught by another. All that gentleness steeled his resolve to kill the free self he once was and settle there until the day he died. He saw the warmth and character of every household in the city—children watering his flowers with their innocent laughter—and he heard again the old lady next door offering him those small, unremarkable greetings. He remembered all of it, didn't he? He had given everything to that place, and in return, he had earned his laurel wreath, hadn't he?

      I remember. We were lovers once, and then… he was cast out of the city, laurel wreath still on his head, only to discover it had become the last city in the world—the last city he had ever promised. Sandstorm after sandstorm destroyed every city, leaving only that one, the city he was no longer allowed to enter. In all the world, only he was barred from its gates.

      He walked through the wilderness, the laurel wreath on his head teetering, telling the story of his past. In that second home of his, winter always brought blinding yellow sand, yet the city stood unshaken amid the storm. Beyond its walls, though the dust blew, there was no color—not gray, but a color I had never seen, a color that did not exist. Dust filled his lungs, pressing down until he could barely breathe. He tried to cry out in despair, but his mouth was stuffed with sand, and he could no longer open it.

      He stepped forward, his foot meeting the ground. Each step carried no strength, no sound—not heavy, not light, steady yet on the verge of collapse. The ground beneath him was much the same. The wind lifted his tattered coat, slipping into his body, yet he felt nothing. He breathed in the sand—neither fast nor slow. He raised his head slightly, gazing at the sun through the dust, the one and only ember-orange light.

      I am certain he is still alive. He keeps walking forward, every step a struggle, every step on the edge of falling. Each breath adds a little more dust to his lungs. He breathes, wanting to stop breathing, but he keeps walking—toward the light of the sun, toward a city that might accept him. He offers his broken body to the world. Whether his final death is silent or sorrowfully beautiful, let the world decide.