I grow weary of talking of my own kind, and yet I find that I must, for the popularity of the subject comes and goes like the fleeting psithurism. Here a whoosh, next a whisper, next there is nothing. And that is our tale with them. We are naught but fleeting imaginations for them to ridicule. If they saw us for what we were, they would die in their sins on the spot. Every movie they’ve ever seen only shows the weakest of us, in our most obnoxious form. They know nothing. Tonight I will take her.