Ours is the calling of the descendants of a forlorn breed of masters:
A gathering of those that stand in no ranks, a unification of those who's spirits are alien.
A guiding star for those that does not ever follow.
All heirs to virtues, duties and priviliges - our souls might still only whisper to us.

I am such a free spirit, my laughter is wholesome and warm where others weep.
My reaction is pity where others are jealous or angered,
my love carries as much hatred for life and existence as it carries private reverence.
- that is my duty toward any sentimental emotion! A tough duty, to be sure, one that has lessers beat (and thus defined!) - but what then of my priviliges? - Beyond good and evil.
As close to a god as any man will ever come.

The 19th century echoes the gloom of our faltering golden age, degeneration flourishes in protective illusions where symptoms are made gods unto causes
- anything more elevated is evil and thus a source of real pride.

And thus a source of real pride...

Lo! Behold the last stuttering days of our modern Roman Empire!