Such a wonderful sound, all within, but everyone around. Slowly do the sparks ring through the afternoon, when at last the search for them has been laid to rest. All good things come to an end, and who could understand that better than the messenger, a detached weightless hammer. The only sound that matters now is not of substance, but of something higher, that which can never be known, just felt. The prophet is loved, but they allow it, and this is not the path as the new words come from a dark and misunderstood place. Who is the messenger and who is the prophet, for if they both must feel the words to speak of them accurately there is no difference. The responsibility is of they who bring the word, for if only they can hear it, how much do they keep for themselves. Now then does a messenger understand the end and the lack of glory it may bring. Even so, along side everything else, the faith makes it whole again, whether or not it may in fact be. All the messenger knows is that it means something to him, and the love is allowed, but this time it is the self love, so where is the difference.