I live atop a tower. My father and mother drew the basic blueprints, but I tweaked them and published the final draft for myself. Then, I gathered my materials, and built it by hand. Layer after layer, the thick, mottled walls began to take shape. Now, it stands the tallest in the valley.
The reason for my tower is a bit like a seive. It's a beautiful sight to behold, but only one other may master it. Some spikes have been set on the sides for safe measure. Sections have been left either polished or not. Only he who hath the wisdom may find the handholds hidden in the face of the rock, and hath the strength and the endurance to make it to the top unscathed. These things are more natural. Preparation has no ground.
There are four brave young ones eyeing my precious tower. The first is the most ancient, though he can only peer longingly atop the hills from afar. The second sits at the base, silently calculating as he awaits the perfect time and path. The third jumped the side and climbed a bit too quickly. A careless woodspike knocked him from the side, though the second was oblivious of his actions. The fourth is a spry young one who only looks upon the tower with kind, curious eyes. He hath the wisdom, but I dare say he doth not possess the strength. He may never climb the tower, but it may be all the better.
One who can't, one who won't, one who failed, and one who shalt. I may only watch and wait from my rose of a tower.
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