I cannot die on every hill. My battles, much like yours, must be chosen with care and fought with craft, with skill, with all the little pieces of me. Strength in numbers prevails, many hands, many hands. But the clarion that calls to thee may not match the resonance of my heart. The bell that calls my spirit to the fore may not be the one that rings for you. I cannot die on every hill. And neither can you, though you may try. Torn asunder, each piece, every moment frantically contributing, calling, pursuing until close and spent. We may be comrades, you and I. But we cannot die on every hill. It is more than should be expected of us.