I have not searched the ends of the Earth, I know not the extremities of man or nature. I know what I know. I know that the fool and the wise man both let time decide their fate, and I wonder in my waiting which of the two I resemble more. I know that I would not be happy as an eagle or an ant, but I imagine that the eagle and the ant would not be happy as me, either. I know more than I let on, and less, I think, than would be prudent to reveal. I know what it is like to run screaming from the world, and what it is like to return to that world. And then, there is the one more thing that I know: what it is like for a nightmare to knock at my door — and when I (hesitatingly) open that door, to see there before me only my own reflection in a mirror... cracked.