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H E ENIGMA OF SU RV IVAL

The fittest, who survives, seeks no reward but rest from mortal combat’s melodrama. By plighting his devotion to a sword and delegating feeling to his armour, anaesthetised by neat adrenaline, he barely feels the piercing of his skin. He need not even be the pluckiest so long as he remains the luckiest. The fittest, who survives, tries to conceal his wounds, as if they suppurated thought. Detached from the beliefs for which he fought, a guilty conscience his Achilles heel, he sways above the body of his rival, upbraiding his own heart for its survival.

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