They did not ask if you were whole, only where the other lived in your soul. A black man in the dreaming spires. A walking myth for their late-night wires. A creature of strange design. A boundary line. And I know that look. The measuring gaze. The parts that fit. The parts they won't. A Roma woman with Irish blood, standing in mud they call pure. I know the weight of a name that is not your own, a history you carry in your bones, alone. Did you feel the púca's breath? The whisper: You don't belong. You are the chorus. Never the song. Every achievement, a raven's cry. The Badb circling. They want to know if you're really real, if your struggle is holy, or just a deal. They'd follow you to the Otherworld gate, to photograph the bruise, to print the grey. And the pressure, brother, is a dolmen balanced on a bed of bone. To be the best. To be the first. To be the proof. The example. The single seed. The Tuatha Dé Danann taught us to fight. But they also taught us t...