How strange it is to enter a place that is dedicated to taking from the present to provide for the future. Red patterns flow through thick red veins and are extracted through thin tubes. This precious pathway discerns the owner and rushes to the side of another, like a straying lover; pooling, seeping, oozing from fresh orphises. Where it is to go after it leaves me I do not know; what purpose it serves, I understand only vaguely. To spill a drop is to waste a divine gift. How odd it is to be able to give so little and fix so much. How often is one able to extrapolate potential in such a unique way.