The rage of man goes on within and without and plagues and summons a deeper rage that only he can know for from time gone by to time to come he lives in a world that he can not know yet yearns to know from the root of his being and so must reach but never touch and so must suffer as a slave to life with only the gift of choice to satisfy his torment and give him cause to stay in this existence unrequested and his choices only avert the rage that dwells or his choices let loose the rage that dwells which brings the innate power to destroy or the great power to create yet his power is an illusion and just the same as the plant’s to grow and bear fruit because for all his thinking and inventing and digging for meaning and killing and drinking in the joy of his own perceived magnificence he is the same as the sand or the air or the flea or the weeds or the slime on the rocks or the dead.