How, then, can you explain to me my beings here, this un passionate, unimaginative “golden age” I spit upon as I pray, the last of my decent kind growing little and thinning out. How have I come to be, and not another? I rather suffer from my heart full of unknown feelings than to live the life of today’s mortal human being. But, where does the line draw? Does the line draw itself, or shall a man toil away with his chalk, through snow and sand, sleet and storm, to divide this earth into ever unbalancing odds.