It saddens me how many poems I've written that I can neither tear nor keep. And which I never wanted to be read except by one person. I've given up hope on perfecting this world and perfecting others, It's time I concentrated on my struggle to rise above this world and achieve my own perfection.

Yet in the end, I can only smile to know that in the darkest of hours, when humans could feel nothing but anger and hate, I felt sacrifice and forgiveness. That is my own reward.

Strange as it may seem, it seems that perfectionists are very able to punish by giving mercy rather than hate. A divine punishment that only they are capable of afflicting. A punishment that would make death seem like bliss. And which is like no punishment that could be inflicted by any human being. Yet it is carried out without their knowledge or their consent by an infinitely perfect being who extracts retribution.