The planet was soft; is soft, I suppose. That would require feeling it, but he was never really interested in that -- lights too bright to want to come down to a place much denser, much heavier, much colder.
The blueish hue didn't help its appearance: for him, it was the color of an oncoming travesty; plight as he might to see its trite. But it didn't stop there: it took him all the way through the bowels of the psyche to that sacred place where few ever go -- could go, he honested.
He missed his home -- that place with all the light. Someday he would find himself back there, amassed amongst the mist and the silhouettes. Today was not that day.
Work it was. Work it will. Work it would be. For him, it was mostly neutral; a purpose in the dark to light the way for those who lost their way. Many had, others would. But he knew the Purpose. Divine, perhaps. But monotonous, a much higher percent.
And so he worked, and worked, and breathed, and worked. Until one day he found himself at the top of a very large hill, truly within this realm yet extracted from his own imagination to be superfluously spectacular -- a diamond in the misten rough. Up, up, up he went. And down, down, down fell his expectactions of what is was he was climbing in the first place. At first, it was truly magical. At next, it was supremely neutral. And then, it was just another mountain.
Lost as he might the feeling that he felt, overcome and overburdened by the monotony of everyday repitition, even he, the Magic, could not notice the sameness in this thing that he knew so deeply.
The plight, he had found. The ebb and the flow of the modern man -- a piece of stature so innate yet so hidden that it had escaped him for so long.
Until now. The light shone. He stepped forward and suddenly realized the end was here. The suffering, an illusion. And his willpower, the only force in the Universe necessary to quell the doldrums of his outer-existence.
Work it no longer was. Work it no longer will be. Work, never again work.