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An ordinary, world-cloaked, weary pauper met a god atop a hill one day.

That god cleared his throat theatrically (as gods often do), pulling a sack from the air.

 The sack was rich and sorrow-tinted; it boasted a rim lined with the fairest, finest tears.

Inside the sack was an uncharted river of Fears, Sacrifice, and Blinding Hate.

As the man watched, the Blindness boiled its way, methodically, through every creed, color, and consequence.

In later years, the man freely admitted that, yes, he once saw a god with a fancy sack high on a hill.

He also saw the kind of world that he knew he could never accept.

Which is why he turned and walked away, no longer believing in riches and gods.

“Far better,” he would always explain, “that I first believe in mankind.”