Dear Hands.

But why, dear hands, do you take it upon yourselves to be responsible for the world? Once you could firmly hold yourselves up; now you haven't the strength nor the courage to straighten those fingers. You cannot grip a pencil nor a knife: neither good nor evil, you are worthless lice, unable to help nor kill yourselves. Yet, it was by your existence that a man died. It was through your action and inaction that his fate was determined. And so it is, that reality is created from all that you do and do not. You realise that you have lost your innocence. You realise you have the blood of all mankind stained upon your palms. Will they understand, too, the blood on their hands? It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. Better that they don't, if life is to go on striving. So you go alone into your self-exile, but for your non-action you are still sentenced to live eternally responsible and guilty for the world.