Long ago in a far away place. An old man, worn down by years of hard work, covered in blisters and gray hair. Stands at the edge of his farm and takes in what he has built. The house he built himself to raise and educate the next generation. The farmhouse and gardens which have fed and nourished all living things under his care. The memories of his efforts and their rewards bring a smile to his face as he lights a single match and sends it all ablaze. For the old man, wiser than anyone can understand, has recognized that despite his efforts. The next generations have not held up their end of the bargain in life. He has served his duty but his children have failed not only him but their ancestors. Panic and horror stirred all to a frenzy as they could not understand what would posses the old man to act so destructive and wasteful. That night he died in a peaceful sleep. Knowing his final act was the only way to set into motion the necessary motivations for his kin to rebuild not only the farm but their manhood. He understood well that nature is fair, adapt and survive or die. Had he not destroyed his home he would only have prolonged the misery of his children, left them susceptible to charletons and politicians who would ultimately profit from his own toil more than his kin. This way the choices are simple, adapt or die quickly. All can be rebuilt, nothing is impossible except that which you allow the devil to convince you is out of reach. To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his Gods.