The Eternal Gloam, sweeping over all of us. Stars bleed away in the bowers of the Great Tree. These fools know not the truth even as its canopy swallows the sun. It is a nightmare to them, something so horrifying that their minds could not hope to contain it by waking light, and the depth of its darkness blinds them to the light it yet offers. They cannot understand it, so they turn away from it, shun its grace. Languishing in their ignorance, they feel its cold gaze at their back, and merely hope that it will look over them, that it will forget the heat in their beating heart, as it has done for no other before.

What they see as a dream is a mere finger, outstretched to we ants in as close to compassion as we could possibly expect from the Prisma Itself. It is the vanguard for something greater, for something truly beyond us, given the shape and soul that it may speak the Prisma's Edict. What fools are we to reject this kindness?