for he was what people called glorious, in all that he had done. in every century he had fought and survived, nothing less and nothing more, but he had done it all with grace. he lived through every day, what not many could do with ease. the man explored the world, ventured into cities, drank with all sorts of individuals, young and old, and he had tasted the finest wine, and slept in the most luxurious of places. but what had he been missing then, that made his soul feel so empty and weak? he had the world at his feet—but there was no love in his life, nothing true and deep, as the one he had now. for of course, you may have the world, the universe, the galaxy, but without love of some kind?

*you are nothing but lonely.