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Sometimes, I consider my iconic images. The things and pictures and forms I imagine myself taking as a world-striding giant, head amidst the stars and feet treading mountains and rivers in a single stride.
I am fairly sure I have them somewhere. Animals. Stances and positions. But all I can think of right now is a head, tilted upwards, that regards the world with a gleeful sneer. Happy, heartful contemptuous reverence (or is it reverent contempt) for all grave things and all things of the grave.
Each step reverberating through eternity and swallowed up by forever. There's a reason Dunsany's Elfland knew time only as a foreign thing, and felt its presence like a disconcerting sore; I am no fae thing.