You're getting too good at this arthur—what will you conquer next after this mastery?

You must start by learning to poach an egg. Then you need to learn to skillfully poach an egg. Then you must learn to masterfully poach an egg. Such is the path of discipline, the quiet forge where competence is hammered into form. The egg, delicate and unyielding, is no mere breakfast—it is a microcosm of order, of nomos, a test of precision and patience. To poach it poorly is to invite chaos: a yolk broken, a white scattered like the dreams of a Jacobin mob. To poach it well is to command the elements—heat, time, water—in a small but sovereign act. And to poach it masterfully? That is to transcend the act itself, to make the ephemeral eternal, to create a thing so flawless it humbles the beholder.

This is not about eggs, you see, but about the soul’s preparation for power. The modern world, that teeming bazaar of noise and egalitarian pretense, mistakes power for a birthright, a lottery ticket, or a shout in the digital void. Folly! Power is not seized by the loud or the lucky; it is earned through the slow, unglamorous mastery of small things. The man who cannot rule a saucepan cannot rule a nation. He who fails to coax an egg into perfection lacks the steadiness to wield authority without shattering it.

Remember the procedure:

1) Become worthy
2) Accept power
3) Rule!!1!1

The soul of the sun shines just outside of the winter,
The shoulders charged the boards of the barricade, a splinter
Now at last alone, the flashlight is shown
Hello, inside, is there anybody home? Anybody home?

It's the Haggard ex-lover of a long-time loser
Standing rejectedly by the door
Doesn't Lenny live here anymore?
Are you sure?
Are you sure?
Are you sure?