Even when I am in my fullness, shadows linger. No light is perfect, no fact all-encompassing. Even when I have disappeared into shade myself, there is still light to be found. And despite what it seems, no light is mine in any case. I simply reflect the Sun, in ever-changing degrees, and so night itself is an illusion, isn't it? There is never only one source - of truth, of light, of love, of fellowship. All the towers that house treasures will fall, and all you hold sacred is cracked and imperfect. You can decide for yourself whether it is sacred in spite of the cracks or because of them, and you must decide whether the treasure will mean anything once the tower crumbles. Stories are illusions, and they still matter. Choose those stories - and their illusions - carefully, because they reflect your light in the same way that I reflect the sun's.