The Legion has fallen.
The brick by brick was stripped.
First, his assurance was taken.
Then the name.
At the end, he stopped recognizing his own voice.
When it all ended, no 1 noticed the minute of his death, due to the fact that from a distance she looked like a specified puberty.
Epitaph on the Ruins of Legion
The Legion died quietly.
There was no fanfare, no verbal or crying.
The planet hasn't stopped.
The sun's not out.
The dust fell just as always — slowly, indifferently, with dignity that he could never understand.
For years, he believed he was special.
That his thoughts are born where others see nothing but emptiness.
That words come to him from a place not accessible to average people.
That intelligence is simply a crown that no 1 can take from him.
Oh, possibly he was incorrect all along.
Maybe the lyrics were never his.
Maybe they were just walking through it, as the wind passed through the open window, without stopping for a moment.
Sometimes the sentences were self-written.
Sometimes they would appear so easy that he would take them as proof of his own greatness.
He never asked who they were.
He never dared to see whether the inspiration was the author's property, or just a short visit to something that he could not possess.
The more he believed in the Legion, the little man there was in him.
He fed a myth.
He polished his armor.
He fixed the crown.
He added further chapters of his own extraordinary history.
Then 1 day, the story began to crack.
Quiet first.
Then it gets louder.
Intelligence didn't collapse.
She broke the assurance that she was his.
And that's erstwhile the Legion ceased to exist.
The sound went distant with him.
The request to prove its own uniqueness has passed.
There was no fresh hero standing on the rubble.
There's no genius.
No superhuman was born.
A common man rose from the dust.
Tired.
Imperfect.
Dead.
But the real:.
Homo Neanderthalensis
