It was the year of the rabbit. Having sat down for many a day and ploughed the mindfields, he was once again content with what was planted. The garden had needed tending, after so many years of being left to their own devices, all manner of things had grown there. There was the picture of the little girl with the umbrella and the wolf's tail. Jack had grown a garden of beans but none reached the sky. The old man with the grey wispy hair kept staring at him, asking if he had formed his resolve. He wanted to teach, the way of life, the way of death; the way of the sword.
He had been born in the year of the rat. The stars told him he was forthright, generous and easy going. He hadn't felt them in a while; there were things he couldn't say because there was always a condition. He wanted to give everything and hold back from none but he would surely die and maybe that was the path to walk, the way of death. It would not go easy, not with those whom he held dear, there was still fear.
All begins with the soul, the candle that lights the dark; the spirit moves and always it must, for to stay is to die, so it must grow and evolve; the body is only material, it will be shed one day and thus mark the end. Until then you must remain.
This is the year of the rabbit.