Kutipan
Humans are such fools.
Well-meaning fools, sometimes.
But fools, always.
Well-meaning fools, sometimes.
But fools, always.
The bindle cat gives his own blessings in echo of mine—though they sound more like curses—as he trots along beside me, tail upright and round eyes alert. While everyone in my life knows I ought to have manifested my aspect years ago, and has hopes and expectations for me, he has none beyond his next snack. The bindle cat is just a cat.
If we don’t dream—if we don’t try to go Below, try to push out the borders of our tiny archipelago and see what else is out there—then what’s the point of all our tech? Are we supposed to just use it to make sleeker transports and smarter chronos—to make our lives lazier and easier?
Not me. I want to explore. There’s a way to solve any problem, and if we want to figure out how to survive Below so we can search it for answers, then we need to go there.
Not me. I want to explore. There’s a way to solve any problem, and if we want to figure out how to survive Below so we can search it for answers, then we need to go there.
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