Glorious Exploits

by Ferdia Lennon

Hermocrates says we should be thankful for our red wind. That it shows Syracuse’s prosperity, its growth, but Hermocrates is a cunt, and I remain sceptical.

It’s hope that makes us afraid, and I remind myself that a man should be grateful for his fears, ’cause it means he has something to lose and to win.

That’s right, I’m rocking the crocs, and the lightning-blue chiton, ’cause a director has to look the part on opening night at least.

It’s the maddest thing. ’Cause for the briefest moment, Syracusans and Athenians have blended into a single chorus of grief for this make-believe.

What people expect rarely happens. Things that seem impossible come to pass. It’s always been the way. The gods have the best seats in town, and we’re their favourite show. This view is liable to ruin your buzz if you like what you have, but I don’t.

Common sense is common, has no imagination, and only works by precedent. It leaves the man who follows it poorer, if not in pocket, then in his heart. Fuck common sense.

perhaps in the end it was fitting, for his master was ever in love with misfortune and believed the world a wounded thing that can only be healed by story.