There was a life, alien to my own, of which I was once afforded a glimpse, and it was very beautiful to look upon, and to be dazzled by its gleam. But like all things composed only of surfaces, it was void, and hollow beneath, a masque to hide other darker, more painful realities; their ugliness, like a rotting disease, could not be seen, only felt. Yet like a moth, dancing before a bright flame, I was drawn towards its sparkle, and held myself only fortunate if I might be able to reach out to it, to touch, and be touched by it, that I might somehow be fulfilled by its fire. I did not think that I might be burned by the leaping glow that blazed forth in the night, only that its reflection might show in me as the visage of another face, in some other fashion, that might be more preferable to my own possession. Were that life to have become mine, it is not possible to predict, for none know what might happen upon the long voyages of our lives; we are buffeted by invisible rocks, and steered by invisible hands.