Come!
The martyred earth waits for you. Daily, our darkness deepens. Secretly, all are afraid. None knows what to do. To underpin, to patch up, to whitewash sepulchres—these are the substitutes for action. To shout, to boast, to nickname bankruptcy, Prosperity—this is the substitute for leadership. We have glorified ourselves, magnified ourselves, made gods of ourselves. We have served Hate, Greed, Lust. And now darkness deepens round us. And we are afraid.
Come!
Lacking you, there is no solution to any one of our problems. Possessing you, no problems exist. If it be madness to believe in you, the sanity which denies you is a greater madness.
But we who have lived on substitutes; we who have plumbed the abyss of ourselves; we who have glimpsed the magnitude of man’s misery—we do not deny you.
From the midnight of madness we stretch out our arms to you.
Come!
A shadow seems to fall across the page I am writing. You are here, in this room! I am certain you are here.
I turn, but I cannot see you. I call, but you do not answer.
I rise, grope round the room seeking you, till at last I stand before a mirror.
But the countenance reflected in that mirror is not mine. It is yours. A man from the Future confronts me. His eyes transmit a secret wisdom. His forehead is crested with serenity.