There is no home in structure or setting. There is no warmth in the light, nor any foreign terror in the dark. From conception, we were torn from the light. Pitched into a world of despair and strife. To be tricked and betrayed by our own, out of the chaos which stemmed from our exile. Yet, the answer lies nowhere. The warring will know no end. The home we all truly long for, is reachable only by defeat. Beautiful and indefinite closure. The cold release of death awaits the fated warrior and the mere pygmy. In your halls of stone, in your brine-struck edifice. The hand reaches down to return us all to the light we so dearly miss. So beckon forth the silent dawn. Truckle not in the face of conflict. For in every anguish, lies the sweet promise of the inevitable pilgrimage. Beckon forth the tranquil dusk. A brief respite. The picturesque perfection of your existence will only be understood too late. So dread not the passage of time. Anticipate the falling rain. Remember always, our home is promised. And the journey is our own.