Very well—

I shall tell a story of The Littlest Acolyte.

There once was a small little boy huddled and cold, wrenched from the masses of his village, and this small boy was chosen to become an angel.

But alas the wings he were gifted and been dented, and besides the form they would be brought too was so tiny and insignificant.

It was a dreadful tragedy and annoying irritating. For the littlest acolyte struggled where others thrived. Where those who called themselves champions would placed into greatness. The littlest acolyte needed all within them to carry the half the burden their betters carried with ease.

Oh, so dreadfully sad. Yet the littlest acolyte would not give up. Even when it would have made far more sense too.

One by one the larger acolytes would disappear, would vanish. Think not of the littlest acolyte to engage in unfair play.

No— the wings they had been adhere to were so beautiful, and free as tripping on high. Yet they were held together with a mixture glue and wax. As they rode closer to the sun. Oh, the feathers bear and fray before they plummeted into the darkness of abject insignificant where the littlest acolyte so often lived.

The littlest acolyte weaned of smoke with broken and tattered feathers. Wings newly adhere by the most unsightly of rooster flesh.

They unseemly in such fine palaces. But when all around you shrivels within the light, sometimes and the humble littlest acolyte so their opportunity to truly soar high, and so he did.

And so they would until they the world had known was gone with time. Even now their wings stay solidly in place. While there so called greater be held the majesty of the sun turned to ash and bone.

Someday the littlest acolyte with their ambition will enlighten the masses. So they too can will seize their wings and fly.