Little matters to me now. I must press forward. It has been many weeks since the moral exigencies of this endeavour troubled my conscience and now only completion can bring me what hope I have of peace. The dark is oppressive, the botanical quintessence overwhelms me and presses me on. What will come of this creation I cannot say. I am Prometheus. The Gods look down from my precipice and swoon. Prayers are useless. The clouds gather, crack and flash. Let it be done.