Can a pen wander on unlined boulevards and find the moment when Pierre Bezukhov realized that the Alyosha life was not going to sit under the cornerstone of a path that follows both passion and passion? Chronology is a damned circle, wandering history until the blood runs as ice under the boots and hooves of a host whose house can only just contain the souls that were cut off by the edge's blades -- inevitability. How many Napoleons does it take to undo our bad values? How many Nietzsches to undergo super-no-more valuation? How many lives and fates can sneak out of unholy unions to find their fame and lose their souls? In translation, we can never know. Under blizzard skies, we will have to forgo the prepositions that made our propositions seem seemly, while Cyrillic and Mandarin ties deselect Shakespeare and drown the world in cause and effect. Whose fault? Unfriendliness is the opposite of peace. And, like we said so many times in those dynamite prize winning speeches, I am great and your worship must lead us all from fights to light. Only so many problems are stacked up by egoistic hands, to be worked out by the rest.