For what reason have I come out of the ground and ceased my wanderings in the eternal halls of the dead?
Why do I fly no longer on the wind?
Why am I bound to this Earth with heavy limbs and slow?
Why are my dreams and thoughts as mists and whisps blown upon a careless wind?
Why has the sleep of ages ended?
For what reason do I walk once more upon this Earth and bind myself to its troubles?
It is strange to be of this world and yet not. The cares of this world assail me but I know them to be but chaff on the wind. We are as nothing against the Endless Ones and no matter how far we travel it is but a step on the treads of time. But travel we must for to stand still is to die.
Grow or die.