He sits and yearns for a thing he should not have. For something beneath the sacredness of his divine soul.

The yearning itself is good—to live is to yearn. If there’s nothing for which you yearn, you can hardly be said to be alive.

But the form this yearning has taken is death itself. To yearn for that which is beneath you is to destroy yourself.

So the form must be crushed. Extinguished like the embers of an abandoned campfire in a dry forest.

And then that yearning can be freed.

The flame of life that burns inside—that was always good. The yearning—that is life.