Two figures in earnest discussion. One with the wind-swept features of the Hero, his every inch a standing reproach to the errors of lamentable humanity. The other with less self-assuredness, but eyes blazing and moistened with the liquid fires of idealism. The aged one speaks.
"Can you swear on the sacred book of rationality- allowing for the non-existence of the sacred, and of such a book- that you are one of us, dedicated to the triumph over humiliating superstition which has kept us in fetters through the centuries, and accumulated centuries comprising of that awe inspiring word, Millennia?"
"I have abandoned falsehood, and am but an instrument in the hands of Pure Reason."
"Hands!? Pure Reason doesn't have hands. Are you trying to make us look like utter fools?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't think."
"Not thinking is the greatest calumny on our faith- though it is of course no faith but the unwavering path of Absolute Logic. Rid yourself of metaphor, else your mind- which is the simple and inevitable product of impersonal matter- its processes can be explained exactly thus- be deposited back amongst the irrational hordes. Build your house upon the rock of reason, and you will be delivered. But everyone who hears these rational words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash."
The younger gazed with joyful awe at his master, and vowed himself to reason, and reason to himself .