Sullen are we, cloud walker?

I see in you as Issac saw in the great hallway. A silent lake's surface of reflections in the water. Yet you figure little is there weight to you.

Come..come. What is in you but great things? When troubled and yielding, does any other feel greater, your pain in that moment? When satisfied, does any other rejoice so genuinely for your task? Even in weariness of the heart, will any other cling so vehemently to your quiet hope?

You are not empty of meaning, nor so hopeless. But you must know this confrontation to resolve the prejudice of yourself.

I do not see ruin. I see a lake. Come...