God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?
I watch the sun leaving me...and the shadow of this warrior falls back into the mountains. I touch the ground which caresses him...and weep for a man who believed in the goodness of others...who wanted nothing more than freedom...
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Blackharrier32
Ah, dear old Nietzsche. "Without music, life would be a mistake."