What moves our tongues to speak your names, you mortals who tend on the ways of the spirits? Why do we cross over if not to abide and why cry out if not to mean? Why to watch over if not to protect and why to wake if not to love? And what makes you think you could even perceive us, you mortals, you darlings, who conjure us forth, when walking, say, amid a crowd you grasp an arm you recognize and you behold a stranger’s face, corrupt behind a wall of flies? But would it cheer you in your beds, in which you wake and wake with age, that every last spirit among us is reaching to make a mark upon your cheek, the imprint of a pressing palm that throbs with heat when we are near and keeps you for us, sad and bright, until the day you walk along? So what do we say to you? What do we say, you wilters and strivers, you cursers, becursed? Why must we bother to explain what you one day too soon will be?