Winning and being victorious is all that any mortal can wish or desire, for in the end we dare not remember the times in our lives in which we failed or came short of good enough; every moment has a chance of wearing that title.

Champion. Wilst you ever call me by such a name, my hands will be stretched along bones, able to move and silenced by age. The skin that covers me is only clothing, for what do I matter without the underneath? What do we matter without ourselves? We are not merely what we have woven ourselves to become, but much more. We are the voices others hear and judge all too quickly, as is human nature. We may see ourselves in some bright angelic light, but be conceived of the darkest shadows outside of our own thoughts. If never we compete and if never we fail a single aspect of life that we can claim as loss, who are we?

Just as I say these things, of what worth is a pair of hands that so fastidiously dance along the planks of piano keys without so much as opening the door? Without support and ears to hear him and sing along to the beautiful melodies he strums, he is nothing; nothing aside from a cage surrounded by pale graying skin the longer he sits and goes unnoticed.

In the least sincere of words, love is a game as well. Whereas in other games you may sacrifice talent, voice, or sanity, in love you must make the sacrifice of your own heart. This is much easier spoken than performed, I tell you, for in a moment you may glance upon his face, his eyes appearing as swollen moons to you, and in another be imagining his beautiful most fair face among those of the dead; no love exists where all faces are nothing more than figures. They float in unison, forever allowed to wander, but never touch.

Her face is often brighter than yours, and coveted by the very lovely and perhaps those peaking toward comely lips staring back at them.