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I can't think of a title for this one. A post with several parts.

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PW WR is mostly doomed, yet full of hope; blackest despair, brightest optimism. The main charge is over; lick wounds, recuperate, reinvigorate.
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Sorry.
For what I have done.
Or not done.
Or what could have been done.
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The beginning of the end; marked by a tempest of paper strewn across floorboards, files inverted like the tents of an invading army, panic setting in like blood drying on steel.
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Study. Read. Imbibe in the nectar of knowledge, feast on the bones of ideas, sleep on the silk of wisdom.

What is it like, to think with the gods?