Olympias threaded he r way through the rocks, miraculously. Was that the doing of the lost one? Because I gave her the right answer?
I don't know. And today, as I work in the autumnal sun, chipping rust from my boat, I ply the iron in a frenzy, like a man chipping rust from his own soul.
I think this: there are worse fates than mine, even if I never become more than a fat old drunk who writes guidebooks.