He grasps at the sun, though it burns his hands, and by his actions the worlds are preserved. He swims in the river, thought he current pulls him down, and by his struggles are the winds kept turning. He strives up the mountain, though his limbs grow weary and the stone rends his skin, and by his pains the stars are renewed. Do not weep for him, child, though his life is hard, for without his pain, non should return from the restless sleep wherein we burn our nights in the hope that tomorrow some small whisper of a shadow of peace will fall upon our sleepless ears and we will wake in glory. For we, the common masses, can do nothing of ourselves to escape the cruel fate which enslaves our pitiful species. We need our heroes, our altruistic noble youths, to lift us up from amongst the putrescent refuse of life to dwell in the clouds among the gods of light. Our heroes, who run through sorrow and woe, never to emerge into the sun with us, who sacrifice their lives and souls to see us through the darkened bog to light and life in the sky again. For so it is with all worlds, in all times, for all eternity. Learn it well, child, the lesson of the truest love. This is the knowledge which sustains the turning of earths.