What is a Man, when he has nothing but himself? A Man bereft of wealth, of success, of enemies to defeat, of triumph, of any other human ornament?
Beyond every frontier, lays real Freedom. Beyond one's skin, there's real Passion.
And The Man craves them both.
There are still people who think voices are just a sound. There are still people who claim that eyes are just a colour.
But distant from people, there is The Man.
He's got wings in his back and no grief in his heart. And the longer his voyage is, the lighter the baggage he carries.
The Man follows no path, he makes it.
The Man knows no rules, since he is rebellion.
The Man is no patriot, since he belongs everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.
The Man chases no glory, since there is no glory greater than himslef.
The Man does not wish, he desires.
The Man is a poet, a troubadour, a pilgrim.
The Man fears no one but himself.
The Man does not age, since he is a constant newborn to the world.
The Man loves his lover as truly as he loves any other being.
The Man is no soldier, since he is a warrior.
Death does not doom The Man, it frees him.
Love does not fence The Man in, it lightens him.
Distant from people, there is The Man.
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