I'm free; I spend very little money; I make my own clothes. Everywhere I go I meet many more men; I meet lovers and fighters and men near their quietus. I don't see the meek; I lack eyes for the soft. I call out to them: 'Come, draw your swords.' their timid selves wretch, so I beckon louder. "Whatever," I say, as they scurry away. The lost grow no wiser; their books make them misers.
I love to read - I do it in trees; at those times, oh so rare, where I may do as I please. I'm scarcely alone; it's always adventure. To those who wish to live: I call you: enter! I've built my own boats, (actually, I stole them), but who's to know or care, once the wind makes it's knolls, and the sun casts it's flare?
I've promised you nothing; yet I've given you everything. That nonchalant frown you always see. "Does he know what he has given to me?" I run through the wild; my freedom is scary. Will I run off? Oh, quite contrary.
He cares for his acquaintance, he hurts them just a little. With reckless demeanor he patches up their wounds. Again he sets sail, oblivious to his wonders?
A smile on his face; and that familiar narcissism. His most resentful quality. It makes him who he is.