It was autumn when the monkey arrived at my doorstep. He looked angry, as far as monkeys go. I was not concerned.

The home itself had become a bastion. A haven. A soliloquy. The defenses impeccable. The isolation absolute.

The monkey screamed at the door, at me, perhaps. The monkeys had proved stubborn when I first arrived. They thought themselves nature's finest and I had proven apt at dissuading them otherwise. Animals. Curing them of their beliefs did not help me with my thoughts.

Grief is a wheel turning, the spoke comes around again. I had divested myself of my other and found freedom in power. And now I was here.

The monkey continued to shriek at the front gate, a profound tone that I found myself pitying. I went to the study and opened the window. It would be better, I thought, then what I had become.

As I slept, my mental intuition, honed for oh so many years, yelled in a much less poignant way then the monkey had, for loss of his tribe, for loss of his mother.

From within a great lethargy I roused myself, for I knew then that I still possessed the will and as a sharp edged rock descended upon my brow, I spoke one word of power. And the monkey became ash.