The beautiful wooden board on a stand in my father's study. The gleaming ivory pieces. The stern king. The haughty queen. The noble knight. The pious bishop. And the game itself, the way each piece contributed its individual power to the whole. It was simple. It was complex. It was savage; it was elegant. It was a dance; it was a war. It was finite and eternal. It was life.

Yes, my dear child, monsters are real. I happen to have one hanging in my basement.

We are the clay, and you are Michelangelo. And we will be your masterpiece.

I didn't show up here to give your life purpose now that your life's over. That's up to you to figure out.

Sometimes in my tent, late at night, I think I can hear the stars scraping against the sky.

Because we will die, but at least we will die unbroken.

Because promises matter. They matter now more than ever.