I sit here alone, quietly gazing into this liquid.

I feel strangely warm and alive. Years ago an old friend of my father's taught me about it. Father knew as much or perhaps I should say, as little as I. He stood there too, listening intently trying to understand the strange ceremonial acts and endless descriptions. I imagine we both felt uneasy. Few people understand this art, this secret. Now I think, "How worthy or capable were we?" Without letting on and without hesitation I started in. Even more so than my Father.

Only now do I see my youthful foolish ways led us down this path. Fifteen years ago at the entrance, I stood unaware and eager. Now a bit closer to the end I remain standing, for wholly different reasons. Reasons unclear but starkly different from those of the past. It is only now that I realize what ageless holy and perhaps heretical acts we carry out.

Let me get to the point. I am troubled. Writing this to you is meant for me to know my mind better. A man can create, however, his creation should be questioned. Who would be of true heart? Who among you would judge without care to his own wants? This tale is meant as a warning. A warning of events in the coming days. More shall learn of this art.

I am sorry. This is not helping.