At the end of things.

It is looking toward a cause greater. It is setting oneself upon a distant stone and seeing the world unhindered.

It is feeling warm despite how cold it may be. It is retiring only when the job is exhausted from effort.

It is attending to man's greater ego even when that ego is not your own. It is feeling light though the flesh is indeed such a burden.

Then it is falling, falling , falling. The world becoming a smaller and smaller porthole in the ship of fate. Looking out from your small room aboard the vessel you see those you loved and those you hated. You see that which was wrong and that which lacked the world.

Then, as your picture of the sun becomes only a faint light, it is smiling. It is security. It is a hand in yours so that one might not have to walk into the transient garden alone. What is it then truly? What fading quality so consumes? What benevolent phantom then enchants? What merciful ailment completely corrupts? What is it?

It is nothing at all.