I have drifted so far from the shores that I do not think I can ever return to it. I have gone in my own ways, sailed forth alone and in search of more like myself; those wanderers of the sea, those free spirits whose happiness abounds in the wayward tides. And now, as I collect distance from the shore, I see its entire outline and remark to myself: “how did I believe that all purpose of existence could be found on those shores; it is but a fragment of life, a fancy of the human nature.” Those on the shore shall wave frantically to me, beckoning my return, deliver me urgent messages through floating bottles, or even venture out into these open waters to warn me of my erroneous journey. But I shall take no heed of them; I cannot – not when so much has been revealed to my sight. The vastness of the world begs to be discovered. How then can I settle, guiltless and insouciant, on a single island and call it the world? Such knowledge forbids my return. And if ever I, no longer capable of enduring the solidarity of the sea, or finding no other wanderers to share my story with, decide to return to the shore, I will only be as an infidel of the mind, of my mind. It will be a stifling existence, but a nevertheless warm and comfortable one. Thus out in these treacherous waters, I must rely on my own strength, on the strength bred from the wisdom of Zarathustra, and find in these wayward tides that happiness which so many before me have found.