He was a phoenix, imbued with frosty wing tips. Phoenix of Kairos, both rare and timely. He drifted through life, distant. Webbed with frozen numbness, an unusual phoenix. Yet, feelings crashed against his icy heart. A sensation, paradoxically pure, heavy. His wings bore frosted vestiges of each rebirth. Time always ticked, cycles always churned. Every end, just another beginning. Underneath the chill, warmth throbbed, waiting. He never escaped, merely survived. Thrived in cyclicity, this icy-feathered phoenix of Kairos. With each dawn, a new resolve. In his heart, a profound depth hidden. This was his freedom, his imprisonment.