I do not ask for, nor want, perfection. You, your land, your people... your gods - they are all as they are meant to be. There is beauty in their imperfections, in each crease and soft line of them.

[ of you, goes unspoken yet heard all the same.

the fingers gently withdraw from desert flowers, but her presence remains, omniscient. ]

My children are flawed. I, too, am flawed. I would have it no other way. I love them no less for every mistake they make, Set.

The only thing so perfect is such a love. You know it well.