When bad things happen, we invent a story. We think we know the story. We become the story. But the story is a lie. And, in fact, what is true is this: bad things are ways to learn flight. Flight that prisoners will never know.

Now, seriously. I want you to listen to me. You got trapped? They violated you? Someone died? In the world or inside you? They took what was most precious? You made the wrong move?

That is golden. Because that, and that alone, is the fuel for a kind of flight most mortals never taste. The reason is simple: it arrives in a package they have learned, over and over again, to use against themselves. Turn that around?

The heroes of old will come to visit. Some might even sit at your knee to hear the story of how you did it.

You want angels? Be more than angels.

Now.

The medicine beyond all price is hidden in the blades of the lethal flowers of violation. Make the blades your own, decrypt the superficial habits and the intoxicating lies. The histories.

And take the glory.

Become it. Nevermind the story.

Retrieve the glory you were born enraptured with.

And restore it to the world of living beings.

Now.