Driving an cart down an asphalt path through green fields, amongst ponds and patches of beautiful white sand, Kesselustra silently mused:
"They ingnored "I"--for eight months hearing instead only an angry mob: duplicitous watchers who hail the sublime player while decrying the merely elite. Thus is the fan!
"The prime growing season is over, yet they continue to plow. A fickle crop they grow!
"For six nights, they shout 'Hooray!' and jump about; on the seventh night, they sit dejectedly with their heads in their hands. A greater pain than mine!
"They sought mastery of self by denying self: Warm beaches beckoned but they chose instead a frozen pond. For what the extra week?
"They worked more than me--and for that, 'They' said: You must work more!"
They did work more, but I was playing golf!
Thus spoke Kesselustra.