I smart at the suggestion that the thousands of seconds spent locked in a death defying standoff between dueling brothers can now be reduced to a shrugged shoulder dismissing the tension with a heft of breath and a noncommittal statement of nothing. I have written words enough to encase the universe with thread in commemoration of a phantom that stood guard as I slept in metamorphosis, expanding within the confines of a well intentioned embrace. And still, when the cocoon unraveled and my wings poised wet from the exertion of creation to explode the box of matchsticks where I had laid in confinement, I let them drop like a wilting lily behind me so the destruction would not impale you, my shadow, my ghost, my goblin. The price we both pay is impotence.