In the warring states, they called us men of the waves: 'ronin'. Masterless, we drifted in and out with the tide because we understood the nature of movement was nothing more than 'hi's' and 'byes'. So we wave both: peace. It was in this freedom that we arrived at the fearlessness of dying. We completed ourselves: one with our shadows, our hearts as broken compasses, scars as maps and our souls held as swords to leave the mark of our nameless legends on the pages of history books that tried to forecast our fate. They now call us men 'a dying breed', though it was by facing death as a way of life that we became immortal. We were light on our feet to the point of buoyancy, for you could not keep a man of the waves down. You should have seen us in our element. We pretty much flew.