If you want it enough, and concentrate on your desire with all the effort left in your injured body, then in the middle of the battle, what should have been the end, just as the bronze spear of Menelaos is about to pierce your throat, you will be lifted out of your self-made mess and into Helen’s bed, her soft pillows for the hard ground, her soft skin for broken bones, her lavender perfume for the stench of human flesh, and you won’t have, except that she may forget your unheroic escape, except for that, you won’t have anything left to wish for.

© 2009–2023, Martijn Wallage