It amazes me the white that comes through the chinks. In every suit of armour there is a flaw. In every dragon's breast there is one scale fleshier than the rest.
I feel as if I used to know which was the weak and which was the strong; holed up in my bedroom on a cold December afternoon reading adventure stories - that chink, that flaw, the missing piece was always the weakness. It was what made the peasant the victor to be knighted and the dragon to be dead.
When I was seven I believed fairy tales because I wise enough to not question the truths presented; truth depicted in crimson, flashing swords, visions and jesters. I unknowingly coloured in the missing parts with imagination and longing.
Now I question if the chinks - the softest parts - are really strengths, after all.
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