Down the path there is a stream, but not as you know it. By nature all streams are slow-flowing, languid in pace, and lax by nature. However the stream is mighty. Many torrents of water travel its path, rapids flick up against its surface like paint flakes off a distressed door. Boulders rise out of the water like the bows of a sunken fleet, and the hiss of far off waterfalls are the screams of their drowned crew. The scent of moss and lichen be-fowls the air for leagues across. The stream is the reminder to all that witness its majesty the ignorance of presumption, and the existence of exemption. "We thought the pretty stream an easy conquest", you hear the drowned crew call, "We were wrong".