Who can see past these widowed edges, to the dark soul that lies beneath? As our fathers assumed a position, a defensive posture, did they, by means of sinful regret, purchase our own souls into this dreaded existence? For what is death to life? And for what is life to death? Are they not but the same, a struggle to no definitive end? The haughty clings to what he knows, and the poor crieth for what they do not have. Both echo into the centre of this web, and unto it brings us nothing.

Who can see the beauty that music brings, and with what words can a sunrise be depicted? Does not the artist, with instable will, recreate these illusions though a matter of paint and will? What is joy? What is sadness? Pain and ecstasy? Good and Evil? God and Satan? They all indefatigably strive to be different, but they are all hopelessly the same.

We all strive for something that is without our reach, something that our grasp will never know. We are forever at an impasse, both in life, and in death.