Woe to the man, who finds not a thing of beauty in the rising and setting of the sun. Who ceases to be enchanted by the starry night sky. Who finds not a warmth in the charm of a crisp eve. Woe to him, as when it rains, not a smile kindles inside of him. Woe to him, who knows not bliss when the morning breeze caresses him. Who knows not of a delight creeping under his skin as the winter sun shines upon him. Who listens not, to the hushed chuckles of trees in the solitude of a windy afternoon. Who breathes in no pleasure from the soft morning dew. And woe be unto him, who looks at the bliss-ridden marvels around him, but with a numb stare. For what remains a difference betwixt him and a boulderstone?
Woe to you my precious, for what are you if not a boulderstone?
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