We are not men; we are myth and metaphor incarnate. The sun and moon, the shield and sword, life and light and dark and death. Our words are scripted, our actions preordained. When I hold him the comfort of his weight is tempered by the knowledge that one day he will be taken from my arms. With every kiss or caress I wonder which one of us will break the other first. Like summer into winter, winter into summer, we are in constant motion toward some familiar beginning or inevitable end. Even our very struggle against this fate is written into the script of our existence. We are not men; we are so much more, so much less.