The fountain was a signpost I

His story, much like man’s History, is not stirred by septic decries, and neither do voices fall gently on its ears, just as a tree is brimming with ancient power and the Alpine north winds with their claps and blows, now from this side, now from that, strive vehemently to uproot it, and with its great branches strewn round the shaken trunk, the tree itself clings to the crags, and as high as it is carried by the zephyrs of the air toward the ever-dark, so deep its roots descend into the Underworld. Much the same, his desire is stormed by assailant voices from this direction and that, from every place and non-space, and while sorrow stirs his vast being, his mind remains unmoved and each tear falls useless.