Why retrace the traitors trajectory through the trees? Why attempt to terminate their tireless rebellion when we know that time is on their side? Why sour an irreplaceable afternoon when time, our time, continues to protrude irritably from the point of contact, a thorn never, yet perpetually, born? As the turncoats turn yet again, will we, the hypothetical remnant, be appeased this time around?

The trees are pillars which support a warped space-time. The pillars seen as trees are supports which rampart a rusted cosmic rose, dotted with the thorns of time, dusted with the rust of creation worn.

The trees, as seen from the somber cell in which I dwell, as seen from the archer's slit near which I sit, are the much-needed verticals balancing my horizontal life. The only consolation they have allowed me in this angular hole is a tiny songbird in a flimsy cage which I have constructed from malleable twigs plucked from the bedding, limbs which bend to my will and twist according to the dictates of my desperate wrists. I've not slept in weeks, anyway.

We possess something greater than time to allay our fears; we have the one thing which is outside the gates of every walled city. There is time, and then there is the end of time.

And...

...so, we are left with the question which we are never any closer to conquering, to which we never move nearer a reprieve in this life of unremitting torture and leisure: why concern ourselves with Lucifer's rabble? As those who wish it the most, the world will naturally be theirs; the globe will be rolled greedily in their worldly palms, trembling with the unholy ecstasy of acquisition. Pardon the expression, but diablos be damned. The Light reigns in this unlit cell. We possess, or rather, are possessed by, the one thing which is outside the gates of every walled city, time not excepted.

The secret identity means nothing, and never did.