Nothing Is True, Everything Is Permitted

I was twenty-three in Florence when they pulled the platform down.

Father, brother swinging silent. And the boy I was, he drowned.

I took the blade he left me. Wore the hood and learned to

climb. Every rooftop, every shadow. Every city, every crime.

Rome, Venezia, Constantinopoli. I follow the thread they started.

Now I stand where Altair stood. And I finally understand.

Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. Not a law or warning that we are

the ones who choose. I leave this for you, stranger,