I dedicate this to all the doctors whose literature is life itself and to all their assistants whose song is the beat of a heart, the resucitated breath of the dying. To the genetics counselors whose mission is to help you navigate the imperfect blessing of our existence. To the surgeons who soldiered on inside my battlefield, against my defenses, who saw the long term greater good in this short traumatic change. To the Blue Cross, a necessary Evil, the jinn of false assurance.
No. I refuse to die my father's early death. I will not go into that dark night of Egypt. That ancient beautiful place. The place of gods on Earth, of monumental builders, of men who parted waters. Thinkers. Remember. The place of THINKERS.
I will learn to be a man right here. In the United States. Where the spirit of Egypt lives. Where the spirit of every country lives. I will show them the beautiful cities. How they emerged by questioning the fires of the past. I will re-use the fires of past. The fucking past. I will drive a stake into it and forge my own torch. Together with my wife and children. We will light the way.