O if I were a romantic wanderer, hailing from distant lands across that isolating lake and telling stories of valor unspoken on this island, how my life would be complete. But now, leaning against my teardrop speckled rock, watching the birds soar wherever they please without portent, I must wait for some sporadic event to fling me from here to there. May the ocean take form, and lifting its great swirling fist, deliver me to my destiny!
But there is no way from here to there, from this way to that, on this floating, monstrous mass obstructing my true purpose on this floating, monstrous planet. Nay, there is no such thing more wonderful and terrible as a dream. Worse yet, a dreamer. The little fantasy tortures its owner without rest or regret, tantalizes him with hope, and then cleaves his aspirations into pieces before his eyes. God help the child unfortunate enough to have found a dream.