Island of Yesterday Receive thy new possessor: one who brings A mind not to be changed by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n. ─John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book I It is the window of a prison they left him, and an island. That fatal year, with frenzy and a goal, a goal that still reverberated in his vein during those sleepless nights, he faced the impossible and the multitude. Battlefield, blood, reeking breath, memory, religion and philosophy are all trapped in a heated discussion of life and death. He was an Achilles, mighty and fearless, his men used to call him. No, never an Achilles. Achilles was swollen with his feet. His feet had been well shaped by birth and dimmed in the sobbing Styx, entirely. He was Beowulf, the epic and the one man that pulled heaven and earth apart. Or he should be the great Ozymandias, king of kings, he once contended. And yet, even Ozymandias cheated no death and pas...