Like the mythical bird, she rises,
like the orb of red and gold again.
Born, destroyed, and dwells in fire,
the creature's known fuel is pain.
And here a deeper cut is felt,
and soft the body falls away,
to reemerge, or birth once more
the harder core, the center stay.
After a year of disaster, hiding, and chance, I return.
I have so much to reestablish. This is starting from scratch.
I wonder that it's even worth the trouble and energy, and then I remember why I dedicated my life to this in first place: because it could never be any other way.
I must contact those whose loyalty has not swayed in my absence.
It's good to see that there are still a few left who tended what was abandoned in my furious haste to cover this up. Starting this once was hard enough, but reparations will be infinitely harder. It's the old car story: When does it become more expensive to fix the old, than to purchase anew?
I'll be the first to admit the old Cookie would have gone and started the foundations to a brand new industry, but there's some unfinished business here.