In a living of a live sublime we all call a cast, a cast on the arm of our hurt spirit, incapacitated empathy. A crime. We are not satisfied where we're at but yet we are reaching, but we're too worn down to stay there long enough to actually reach anything. We wonder if the reaching will actually ever result in anything. And what were we looking for anyhow? A dream? A wish? Who are we wishing to, and which gods are ours? Which gods exist and which gods don't? We will never see what's impossible to see, and this is true so what then? What then? One can only empathize with us. One can only understand with our plight as human, our narrative as humanity. When so pressured down in the well, why would we not think of a story to tell? Why would we not delude ourselves, and who would not excuse us? Who would not see this as only practical? For who among us is without problem, not only on the outside, but also on the inside? Where it really means? Who among us, is not among us,who there is not a part of this team? The team which exists for all of us. We are the people, the evolved primate-kind, which lives ever creating and fitting ourselves in custom cobbled shoes exemplifying 'the dream.'